


Setting Fire To Our Insides For Fun

by fridaysblues (taemin)



Series: Taekai Spies AU [4]
Category: EXO (Band), SHINee
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-28
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-03-03 23:10:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 72,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2891564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taemin/pseuds/fridaysblues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jongin's never been happier than this past year, lying low, making a life with Taemin. He doesn't even get the urge to look over his shoulder anymore when he's out walking on the streets. "It's been pretty quiet," Jongin tells Baekhyun. "Until you showed up, anyway."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

A year after his release from prison, Jongin still gets a little edgy every time the lights flick off. Even though it's Taemin's hand on the switch, even though there's always a hand smoothing up his side, reeling him into bed. Just for a second, he forgets where he is and expects to hear the roaring metallic clang of bars pulling shut like a wave cresting over him and a lone, rasping voice taunting from across the cell block. _"Hey. Pretty boy."_ His lungs freeze for a moment. Just a moment, though—barely even time to blink.

And then he breathes and he's back in the present, back in his apartment in New York with Taemin, who's lying back against the pillows with his hair in his eyes, watching Jongin with a soft expression. Just waiting. If he sees it, if he knows what Jongin's thinking for that split second, he doesn't say anything. 

"Coming?" Taemin asks, tone light. He pats the pillow next to him for emphasis. His eyebrows lower. So does his voice. "Unless you had something else in mind."

Jongin's eyes trace the shape of Taemin's mouth. He can think of a couple of things.

Jongin inches forward on his knees, eyes full of intent, trained on Taemin. There's nobody else in the room. There's nobody else in the world but Taemin when Jongin's looking at him. Taemin props himself up with his hands behind him, body rising like the tide, his fingers splayed in the sheets. He's clearly thinking the same thing, back arching slightly, an unspoken invitation to touch.

"What do you want?" Taemin asks, teasing. 

Jongin doesn't answer and instead sidles right up to him to straddle his lap, bodies flush, hands braced on Taemin's ribs. He loves the feel of Taemin between his palms, so solid, so real. After a year of fragmented jungle memories he kept trying to suppress, after those long years in jail after the Colombia job had gone bad, scratching tally marks on the cell wall to count the days, after everything, it's a wonder to Jongin that they are finally both here at the same time. Jongin can feel Taemin's heart clobbering in his chest, although his even, half-lidded gaze doesn't betray a thing. To the untrained eye, Taemin nearly looks bored. He wants, but he also wants Jongin to come to him. Jongin, naturally, is always willing to oblige. 

Taemin bares his neck, head thrown back. The lump in his throat jumps when he swallows. "Well?"

Jongin's face is so close now that their noses are touching. His eyes cross slightly, trying to focus on Taemin, maintain eye contact. _Don't blink._ Taemin sticks out his tongue, daring Jongin to go on, just kiss him already like this is some sort of race Taemin's trying to win. 

"You," Jongin murmurs finally, and softly drops his tongue in Taemin's mouth. Taemin wins because Jongin's patience has worn thin. He doesn't fight it anymore. He doesn't want to.

Their mouths clash, and then divert, Taemin's teeth grazing the shell of Jongin's ear, kissing it, whispering, " _Jongin_ ," then reconnecting. Taemin reaches up to the nape of Jongin's neck and pulls him down on the bed, and Jongin remembers exactly where he is, which is exactly where he wants to be.

☠☠☠

When the knock at the door comes in the middle of the night, Taemin's up a beat before Jongin even opens his eyes, finger already on the trigger of the pistol he keeps under the pillow.

"Who the fuck?" Jongin breathes, dizzy with adrenaline. He feels the last vestiges of sleep behind his eyes, his body still pliant and well-fucked and reluctant to move. He'd been so relaxed after Taemin finished that he'd fallen asleep straight away. He's still thinking about it as he shakes himself fully awake, feeling the heavy languor deep in his bones. The evening replays in fractured moments—Taemin pressing into him, Taemin's fingers running through his hair. Taemin's hand on his chest afterwards, tracing shapes with a fingertip, soothing him to sleep. He strains to listen and hears nothing, wonders if it's a dream? But Taemin heard it too. His eyes are wide, pupils blown. They're close, but a shared hallucination seems excessive, even for them. 

The knock comes again. Less confident this time. Taemin rolls up onto his knees, pulling the sheet off the bed where it had gathered at Jongin's ankles to hold over himself, gun still pointed at the door like there's trouble on the other side of it.

"Taemin, careful," Jongin warns, sitting up. He's naked too, bereft of bedclothes and scrambling to find something to pull on. "It could just be the neighbors—"

Taemin shoots Jongin a very pointed Look. Even half-obscured by shadow, Jongin knows exactly the skeptical expression on Taemin's face. Taemin's been out of the jungle for years now, but his instincts are still as sharp as ever.

Still, he's matured enough to recognize when Jongin might have a point. He makes a compromise with himself and lowers the gun to squint through the peep hole in the door.

"Who is it?" he calls hoarsely, feigning exhaustion. His finger flexes against the trigger guard, itchy with anticipation.

"Jongin. It's me. Open the door."

Taemin looks back at Jongin, his eyes narrowing with confusion. No one knows them by their old names here. In New York, they're Alex and Tim. Jongin recognizes the voice, though, and barrels up past Taemin to yank open the door, still stark-naked. Baekhyun's hand is poised to knock a third time. He is completely unfazed by Jongin's abrupt nudity.

"You're home," he says stupidly, like they'd be anywhere else at three o'clock in the morning. He's probably spent the last fourteen hours on a plane and looks like it, judging by the grey cast on his face and the puffiness of his eyes.

"Fuck, Baekhyun," Jongin hisses. "You know better than to use my real name now. What are you doing here? Why didn't you call?"

"It couldn't wait." Baekhyun rubs his eyes, looks behind him at the row of identical doors that stretch down the hall, then back at Jongin and past him into the dark apartment. "Can I come in?"

☠☠☠

Jongin hesitates to turn the lights on before he compromises and flicks on the light above the stove. It bathes the room in the eerie yellow glow of a dream. Baekhyun settles in to wait at the kitchen counter on one of their two stools, one ankle wrapped around the stool's wobbly leg, other toe tapping arrhythmically against the tiled floor.

Taemin makes an awful lot of noise in the kitchen, punctuating his frustration with every clatter and bang of the dishes, the cutlery drawer, the cabinet doors. The sink burbles to life under his hand. He fills the kettle for something to do to keep his hands busy. He's never been much good at staying still.

"So," he says to Baekhyun, mostly to fill the silence, "how was the flight?" He twists the burner on the stove with a decisive click, watching as the flame pops and glows blue.

Jongin's since pulled on a pair of pants he scrounged up from the bedroom floor. They're a tight fit and barely skim the knob of his ankles. Probably Taemin's, probably the ones he'd kicked off earlier, before bed. It's better than nothing. Jongin honestly can't be bothered to go back to his closet and find a pair of pants that fit, because Baekhyun is here. In their kitchen. Thousands of kilometers away from where he should be, back in Seoul with his family. 

Which means something must be very, very wrong.

"Fine," Baekhyun says awkwardly. Jongin realizes that this is Baekhyun's first time officially meeting Taemin. Before this, Taemin was just a name in a dossier, a black mark on the record of their NIS team. A failed hit. Baekhyun had been relatively understanding when it came out what Jongin had done, all things considered—he was, after all, the only member of the team to consistently visit Jongin every week that he was inside—but the lingering tension is still evident in his hunched shoulders. 

"Baekhyun?" Jongin asks, jumping in to save them all from any more small talk. "What's going on?" He crosses the kitchen, stands so that his shadow falls over Baekhyun. Baekhyun jumps and looks up when Jongin rests his hand on his shoulder. His lower lip's raw from chewing at it for the entire duration of his flight. 

"I need your help," he says. "One of our old assets has information on an op we've been working." 

Jongin rocks back on his heels and exhales slowly. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but _a job_ seems... it hadn't even occurred to him. "Why me? I'm not—I'm just a civilian now, Baekhyun, I'm not anything. I don't have any privileges with the NIS."

"It's been years." Taemin steps in. "What aren't you telling us? Why do you need him? You've got a whole stable full of operatives—"

" _Stable_ ," Baekhyun repeats, chuckling. "They're not horses. It's a little more complicated than that."

"How complicated?" Jongin asks. He slips his hand down Taemin's forearm and lets his palm come to rest over the back of Taemin's hand. Taemin shakes him off and turns back to the stove.

"Well, first—it's Moonkyu. Prickly son-of-a-bitch, especially after what went down before. You've always had a delicate touch with these things, though. And he's asking for you specifically. Won't talk to any of us." Baekhyun flashes Jongin a grin. He still looks exhausted. "Trust me, we've tried."

Taemin stops what he's doing to swivel his head. "What kind of—"

"I can't really tell you all of that yet," Baekhyun says quickly. "It's sort of need-to-know."

"Well," Taemin says, folding his arms across his chest. "You show up in the middle of the night, no phone call, trying to drag Jongin away back to Seoul where he's not safe because you _need a favor_. I think we need to know."

Baekhyun scrunches his eyes shut for a few seconds, then opens them again, blinking rapidly. 

"Taemin," Jongin cautions softly. "If he can't say, then he can't say. I don't have clearance anymore, it's not—"

"No, no." Baekhyun waves him off. "You're right," he says, pinching the bridge of his nose. "He's right, Jongin. I can't—this isn't exactly following protocol. The NIS doesn't even know I'm here." He swallows nervously. "My visit here isn't entirely authorized. We've been off the books on this one. It's—the old team's been working this. Since Colombia."

Jongin's shoulders stiffen at the mention of his last op. _The old team_ has been broken up for four years now. By the time Jongin went inside, Jongdae had been assigned a new asset. Baekhyun had been transferred upstairs to work computer crimes, and Soojung—she'd left shortly after she and Baekhyun got married, to spend more time at home with their new baby.

"What is it?" Jongin asks. Baekhyun fumbles in his pocket and pulls out his smartphone. He unlocks the passcode with a few swift taps of his thumb and pushes the phone across the counter to Jongin. Jongin leans over and peers at the screen, eyes still blurry with exhaustion.

"Now that Jonghee's a little older, Soojung's gone back to work," Baekhyun explains as Jongin reads. "She's doing corporate security now for a firm in Gangnam. They—they do a lot of business overseas. And she got her hands on this." 

Looking at a dossier on a cramped smartphone screen is less than ideal, but between the tiny print and the large swaths of blacked-out text, Jongin gets the gist. Someone's got an informant working in Tokyo who has some information about the inner workings of the NIS, including operation dates and names of spies, South Korean spies. The kind of information North Korea would pay top dollar for. The kind of information a lot of places would pay top dollar for. A spy is a spy, and they always know enough for it to become a Real Problem if they wind up in the hands of the wrong people.

"I never believed it was you selling the locations of our operatives," Baekhyun says, retrieving his phone. "You're not the type to put other people in jeopardy. That's not like you at all."

Jongin looks over at Taemin. Baekhyun's assessment, while flattering, is not entirely true. He'd disobeyed a direct order from headquarters just to keep Taemin safe, and then, when questioned, he'd lied about it, right to Jongdae's face. He'd risked everyone's careers—everyone's _lives_. It's a miracle they're all alive and unharmed, but they're in this situation right now because of a decision Jongin made all by himself without thinking it through to the logical conclusion.

"You weren't in it for personal gain," Baekhyun says softly, like he's reading Jongin's mind. "You didn't do it for money. You didn't blow anyone's cover. Nobody died."

Jongin nods slowly. His chest tightens with guilt.

"Look," Baekhyun says, and he lifts his chin up to look past Jongin at Taemin. "We make decisions based on the information they give us, but sometimes they haven't filled us in on all the details. We only know what they're willing to tell us." He clears his throat. "Anyway. I'm not here to talk about that. What's done is done."

Jongin dares to glance over at Taemin, who seems to know just what Jongin's thinking. He refuses to meet his eyes, turns back around to rummage through the cabinets for some tea bags instead.

"This is bigger than you," Baekhyun says. "You were the fall guy because it was convenient. But—we've been tracking it. And it doesn't add up. The things they said you did—the timeline. It doesn't fit. And I think it's going to get worse—for _all_ of us—if we don't do something about it."

Suddenly Taemin's back at Jongin's side, nudging the back of his knuckles with a warm mug of tea. Jongin accepts it gratefully; however, it's too warm to drink just yet. Taemin slides a second mug across the counter to Baekhyun and stands there without one of his own, his hand splayed protectively against Jongin's lower back, thumb swiping back and forth over the knot of scar tissue there that makes it hard for Jongin to sleep sometimes. Jongin moves into the touch, just slightly, but enough to communicate that he's still here.

"So? You work for the NIS," Taemin says, his voice strangely hard. "Get a warrant. Break down his door and drag him out. Hook him up to electrodes. Make him talk."

Baekhyun looks up at Taemin from underneath his eyebrows, an amused expression on his face. "As much as I like your style, nobody's issuing warrants on a hunch. I can't just break into a civilian's home if I want to keep my job."

Jongin takes a long swig of tea. It scalds his throat dry as he swallows. "You think Moonkyu knows something we can use, then?" he manages, wincing.

"I think so. I'm telling you, Jongin. Something's up. I really didn't want to come here like this. I know you're just trying to keep your head down and move on with your life—"

"But I'm the only one who can help," Jongin finishes, nodding. "If that's what I need to do, then fine. I understand." Taemin's hand starts slipping away. "What's next?"

"I need to bring you back to Seoul tonight," Baekhyun says, carefully setting his mug down on the counter. Taemin's hand drops from Jongin's back completely. "I know," Baekhyun says hastily when he sees the stricken look on both of their faces. "I wish I didn't have to do this. If I could think of any other way, trust me, I'd do it in a heartbeat. But he's gone underground, and this is the only lead we've got, Jongin... I just don't want anything to happen to anyone else."

"Me neither," Jongin says quietly. Taemin makes a huffing sort of noise and goes back to the stove to tidy up the dishes.

"I just want to know that we've exhausted every avenue," Baekhyun says. Jongin nods, his mouth set into a thin, determined line. It isn't even a question for him. He's been loyal to the country for his whole life. Regardless of what happened, regardless of whether or not this clears his name—this is always what he was meant to do.

"Okay," he says. "When do we leave?"

Baekhyun looks him up and down and smiles. "How soon can you put some real pants on?"

"I'm coming too," Taemin interrupts, whirling around to insert himself back in the conversation. "He's not going anywhere without me. I won't let him."

"Taemin…" Baekhyun begins. "I don't think that's such a good idea."

"No," Taemin says. "That's it. We're a packaged deal. Both of us, or you deal with it on your own."

"It's going to be hard enough sneaking one ex-pat into the country last-minute without a cleared visa. You really want to risk trying it with two?" Baekhyun asks, rubbing at his temples.

"You're smart," Taemin says, folding his arms across his chest. "You'll find a way."

☠☠☠


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for brief mention of unprotected sex (consensual/in a committed relationship)

☠☠☠

They take the first flight out from Newark to LAX. Taemin claims the window seat and promptly passes the fuck out on Jongin's shoulder, his hand wrapped around Jongin's upper thigh to keep him tethered to his seat. Baekhyun keeps peering over Jongin's head to check on Taemin and then looking back at the tablet in his hands, trying to pretend like he hasn't noticed how attached at the hip they've become. 

"You seem like you're doing well," he ventures, finally brave enough to speak. They're somewhere over the Midwest and Taemin's drooling on Jongin's sweater.

"Not bad," Jongin admits. 

"I was worried, you know. That you wouldn't be." The flight attendant stoops over to offer them drinks and every muscle in Baekhyun's body stiffens. Jongin smiles and accepts the Coke she hands to him.

"What's going on, hyung?" Jongin asks quietly after she's moved on to the next row.

Baekhyun catches the small child seated ahead of them peering back through the crack in the seats, obviously fascinated by the soft wheezing noises Taemin makes in his sleep. "We'll talk later," he says through the widest, fakest smile Jongin's ever seen. "It's a long story."

 

By the time they make it to LAX, Jongin's the one starting to feel drowsy. He'd been running on pure adrenaline after being woken up in the middle the night, but now he's struggling to keep his head upright, forget about his tray table. Taemin, on the other hand, is wide awake and staring out the window during the descent, backhanding Jongin in the chest over and over when he catches sight of the Hollywood sign. 

"I see it," Jongin says, his eyes closed. "Cool." Taemin huffs angrily and settles back, his seat in the upright and locked position, ready to land.

 

"We have to split up," Baekhyun tells them in the concourse. "To draw as little attention to ourselves as possible."

Jongin's throat tightens. He nearly backs out right then. _It's not worth the risk,_ he thinks, but it's more than that. He and Taemin haven't spent a day apart since he arrived.

Baekhyun sees Jongin's reluctance and ploughs on. "Taemin, your name is on half a dozen watchlists, they're going to be looking for you. I can't be seen escorting you anywhere, especially not once we get back into the country."

"I know," Taemin says. And then, to Jongin, quietly, to reassure him: "Don't worry, super-spy. I haven't forgotten how to break the law."

Jongin feints a punch to Taemin's ribs. Taemin's confidence doesn't make him any less worried. So much can go wrong. There's an entire ocean between now and then. And when they get to Seoul, it will be just as dangerous—but at least then Jongin doesn't have to do it alone.

(He's been out of the game too long—Jongin from five years ago would _never_ bat an eyelash at working solo. Jongin from five years ago preferred it.)

Baekhyun gives Taemin a Post-It Note with the rendezvous point in Seoul. Taemin reads it for an extended beat, his eyes following the address printed in Baekhyun's hasty scrawl, and then moves to throw it away. Jongin stops him.

"You'll forget. Keep it."

"I won't forget," Taemin says, and executes a neat three-pointer into a nearby trash can. Jongin rescues it anyway and tucks the crumpled note into the pocket of Taemin's coat. Taemin seizes the opportunity to bump foreheads with Jongin.

"Ow," Jongin says, wrinkling his nose. "I told you to stop doing that."

Taemin grins and leans in, mouth hovering a fraction away from Jongin's before Baekhyun awkwardly clears his throat.

"Remember, you're in public," Baekhyun warns. "There are cameras everywhere. With facial recognition capabilities. Don't draw attention to yourselves." He pauses, then clarifies, still looking a little uncomfortable for interrupting them. "It'll be safer if you look like you don't know each other."

Taemin takes a few reluctant steps back and tugs his mask up from where it'd been dangling under his chin. 

"I'll see you soon," Jongin promises. "Don't lose the address."

Taemin pats his pocket and gives Jongin the thumbs up. Even though his mouth is hidden, Jongin can tell he's smiling by the way his eyes crinkle at the corners. And then his eyes disappear too, behind a pair of sunglasses as he sidesteps away and falls in with a group of tourists. With his beanie tugged down low, he's unremarkable. Blends in with the crowd. Jongin watches him as long as he can, eyes trained on the black hat as it bobs in between families, and then disappears.

Baekhyun lets him linger by the trash can, almost like he knows Jongin's half-hoping that Taemin will come back, and then takes him over to a nearby Starbucks to buy him a cup of coffee.

"He'll be alright," Baekhyun says, stirring three packets of Splenda into his coffee at once. "He got in the country easily enough last time. He knows what he's doing. He's very good—we still don't know exactly how he managed it."

Jongin manages a weak smile. Taemin's always been very good at getting himself out of tricky situations. 

"Cheer up. You look like I just killed your dog." Baekhyun pushes the second cardboard cup of coffee into Jongin's hands. "Why don't you tell me what you've been up to this past year? Haven't heard from you—you never call home anymore—"

Jongin laughs outright at this and punches Baekhyun in the shoulder. Coffee splashes everywhere.

"Hey! Watch it!" Baekhyun says, lapping at the crook of his hand.

"Like you don't know," Jongin says. "I know you—you've been keeping tabs on me."

"Me? Would I abuse government resources to check up on a former colleague?" Baekhyun pauses, then grins into the plastic lid of his cup. "Look, it sounds creepy if I say it. Just humor me. They're not going to allow us to board for another twenty minutes."

Jongin sits back against the uncomfortable metal bench, crosses his legs at the ankles. He's feeling the weight of fatigue heavy in his arms and his head's beginning to throb a little bit. "Taemin's—still at Allied Interests."

"No trouble there?"

"Don't think so," Jongin hedges. Jongin actually hasn't the faintest idea. He hasn't stepped foot in the offices since that first day, when he'd gone to find Taemin. He'd asked Taemin—begged him, really—to leave him out of it. He's done with that life. Doesn't really want Taemin in it, either, but Taemin knows what he's doing, and he never brings his work troubles home to Jongin.

"Do we know anything else about Hong?"

Jongin casts a sidelong glance in Baekhyun's direction. "Hyung. I thought we were catching up. Is this an interrogation?"

"I'm just curious! There are still some things I haven't been able to find out."

"So you're losing your touch?" Jongin teases. Baekhyun looks like he's about to put Jongin in a headlock—then remembers his coffee and seems to think better of it.

"I just want to make sure everything's safe."

"Mr Hong's a nice guy," Jongin says. He's met him once or twice at stupid dinner things when he can't find an excuse to stop Taemin from forcing him into a suit and dragging him out. Quiet guy, but pleasant. Certainly more humble than what you'd expect from someone worth a fortune. "Taemin's more in charge of the day-to-day around there."

"And the building's still standing?" Baekhyun's eyebrows lift, impressed.

"I know. A miracle, isn't it?"

"And you?"

Jongin lifts a shoulder. "Chanyeol taught me a few things at the restaurant. Enough that I can pick up work when I need to. We get by."

Baekhyun pauses, lets the silence stretch thin between them before it breaks. "Jongin. If—if something was wrong, and you needed help. You wouldn't try to deal with it on your own, would you? If there was anything we could do, you'd call us, right?" he pleads.

Jongin hears the quiet desperation in Baekhyun's voice, like he's trying to say something without actually having to say it. Jongin can't figure out what he means, though. Jongin's never been safer than this past year, lying low, making a life with Taemin. He doesn't even get the urge to look over his shoulder anymore when he's out walking on the streets. "Yes," Jongin says, aiming for gentle. "But don't worry, hyung. It's been pretty quiet. Until you showed up, anyway."

☠☠☠

Baekhyun's car has been waiting for them in the short-term lot. Jongin slides in to the front seat, surreptitiously eyeing the child's car seat strapped in the back. Baekhyun catches him looking anyway.

"You'll finally get to meet her," he says, turning the key in the ignition. He sounds undeniably excited at this prospect. "She's walking and talking now."

Jongin thinks about that for a moment. Baekhyun'd insisted on naming his daughter after Jongin— _"After what you did, stepping up to keep us out of trouble like that—I can't forget it,"_ he'd said—and Jongin's been receiving pictures of her since Soojung's first ultrasound. But despite feeling vaguely protective over her, the way any uncle does, he's scared to meet her, because then that means that she's real. He hasn't seen his own nieces and nephews in years, not since before he went in. It's for the best, he knows, that he isn't a part of their lives, considering his former line of work. He made his choices, he knew the risks going in, although they hadn't become a reality until his picture had showed up on the national news as a traitor of the state. It just stings. He knows living his new life in New York means he's not going to get to be a part of Jonghee's life, either.

"She's cute," Baekhyun says, like he's reading Jongin's mind and wants to put him at ease. "She likes puppies. You guys will get along great."

Instead of taking him back to his house, like Jongin had been expecting, Baekhyun takes Jongin to the shittiest part of town Jongin's seen in quite a while and pulls right up to an abandoned high rise at the end of a long row of boarded up buildings. There are big red signs wrapped around the sign post proclaiming _SLATED FOR RECONSTRUCTION!_

"You've got a month or so," says Baekhyun when Jongin takes a third wary glance at it and then looks back at Baekhyun, puzzled. "Until it gets warm enough to work. They've got enough to do on the roads before then."

"We won't be here that long, though." Jongin thinks of his apartment back home and wonders whether the neighbors will notice that they took off in the middle of the night. Place is a mess, too—if the building manager stops by to check on them. He's going to think they were abducted, or worse, on the run.

Baekhyun shakes his head. "Hopefully not. But just in case." He smile and taps his index finger to his forehead. Jongin almost thinks he sees a few stray grey hairs at the temples, but decides not to say anything. Now's not the time. He can give him shit later. After he's slept. "Water's on, electricity's on, heat… well, you'll figure it out. There's a burner cellphone for you—keep it with you at all times. No numbers in it—we'll call you." 

"Got it," Jongin says dizzily, already feeling like he's back on one of his first ops. He hates this sinking feeling of being in over his head, but it's too late to back out now. 

"One more thing." Baekhyun claps him on the shoulder. "We left you an insurance policy under the sink. You don't need it, you throw that shit in the Han on your way out of town."

 

The high-rise is decrepit and crumbling on the outside, plaster walls gouged deep with spidery cracks that wind up the edges. It's perfect, really. Entirely uninviting to anyone, even squatters, with its uniform rows of windows, boarded up, grungy and filmed over by years of dirt. Families lived here once upon a time, probably decades ago—there's evidence of children's toys, broken action figures, and an abandoned ball, papier-mached with leaves, long since gone flat in the grass.

Inside, though, it's almost cozy. The hallways are long and drafty, but in the first apartment, Baekhyun's set up a space heater and a mattress, generously piled high with blankets and pillows. The kitchen is stocked with basics—soup, rice, eggs. Jongin's hungry, but too exhausted to expend the energy it would take to make himself anything substantial. He pours himself a mug of water and does a quick perimeter check as an excuse to stretch his legs. Nothing. Nobody for miles, or so it seems.

It's weird to look at his watch and see that it's only past ten in the morning when he gets back. A combination of jet lag and artificial light has completely warped his sense of time. He barely smothers a yawn, checks his watch again, because he's already forgotten what it said. He's been up for 24 hours now, and it's long past midnight in the timezone his body's currently living in. He's a little worried that Taemin's still not here.

He opens the cabinet under the sink and is surprised to see a handgun — and then he's surprised that he's surprised. They're both in the country illegally. This building is so old that the locks have rotted out of the doors. They'll need to protect themselves somehow. Baekhyun wouldn't leave them stranded without any way to do that. But still.

He unbuttons the neck of his shirt, and then his cuffs. Sits back on his elbows to take a break and look at the rest of the room. He only means to rest his eyes for a moment, but the next thing he knows the light coming through the windows has shifted and door is slamming open. He sits up, pawing for something nearby to brandish as a weapon, until he sees it's just Taemin and relaxes.

Taemin's eyes twinkle over the stark white of the mask still stretched over his nose and mouth. "Morning, sunshine," he says, deep voice muffled. Jongin checks his watch. It's early afternoon, now.

"Christ," he breathes. "You scared me. You can't just come into a room like that, Taemin, what if I had a gun—we're not even supposed to _be_ here, you could've been anyone, for all I knew—"

Taemin tosses his mask aside, then his hat. "Are you disappointed? I could pretend. Although I seem to remember you telling me once that violence wasn't foreplay for you."

Jongin tries to laugh and ends up swallowing another yawn. "Where have you been?"

"Flight from LAX took me to Tokyo first. Long layover." He runs a listless hand through his hair, steps inside the apartment and shuts the door behind him. His hair's getting long. Not as long as it used to be, back when he was in the jungle and it grazed the points of his shoulder blades. He's been letting it grow back, though, and now the tiny silver crosses in his lobes are barely visible through the dark waves curling around his ears. Jongin loves it, really, even when Taemin gets frustrated with it getting in his eyes and puts it in a top knot.

"Need a haircut," he says casually, yanking at it.

"No, don't. Leave it."

"You like having something to hold onto," Taemin teases.

"More like you like being pulled around," Jongin retorts, flushing. Even now, a year out, Jongin's cheeks still burn hot thinking about the noises Taemin makes when Jongin really gets a handful and pulls. 

Taemin notices the color in Jongin's cheeks and a small smile creeps into the corners of his mouth, that sly one he gets when he's up to something. He crowds into Jongin's space. "How'd you get here? Direct?"

Jongin nods. He hates long flights, and today's been full of them. His back's killing him. "Missed you," Jongin mumbles, suddenly shy. Taemin kicks off his boots and stands in the middle of the room.

"I smell like an airport," he says, glancing back at the bathroom. "Do we have running water?" His way of saying come shower. Jongin rises obediently and stands, head bowing forward tiredly onto Taemin's shoulder to let him finish unbuttoning his shirt. Taemin smooths his hands underneath the open sides of Jongin's shirt, his hands _so_ warm, and kisses the underside of Jongin's chin, then down his neck. Jongin shivers.

"Baekhyun—ah, shit," Jongin says, gasping under Taemin's mouth. He feels Taemin's smile on his throat.

"Haven't seen you in a day and you forgot my name?"

Jongin scowls and tries to clear his head enough to finish a sentence. "You're—fuck, Taemin, he's going to call—he said get some rest."

"Shower, first. You stink, too."

 

After, Jongin doesn't even bother with a towel or with putting any clothes on, just stretches out across the mattress and dozes. Baekhyun'd left enough blankets that he's able to burrow deep and make himself a little nest, waiting for Taemin to finish up doing god-only-knows what.

"Oh. Wow."

Jongin feels Taemin's weight shifting onto the side of the mattress and cracks open an eye to a familiar sight. Taemin's stark naked and half-hard, his cock curving heavy between his legs. He's not looking at Jongin, though—he's holding the handgun from under the sink in both hands, a mix of reverence and awe on his face.

"Look at this," Taemin says softly. "A Norinco. It's beautiful."

Jongin chuckles and reaches up, hand skimming Taemin's hip. "You look like a kid on Christmas morning."

"Better," Taemin says. "Been a long time since I got my hands on one of these." 

Jongin covers the gun with his hand and pushes the barrel away, down to the mattress. "Come here," he croaks, voice thick with sleep. "Lie down with me."

"Wait. First—Give me a second—I want—" Taemin starts, not bothering to finish as he sets the gun on the floor and rummages around in his backpack. He returns triumphant, holding the mostly-full bottle of lube from their bedside table back at home.

"Christ," Jongin says, laughing a little when he thinks what the agents at Customs must have thought when they found that, but he lies back and closes his eyes anyway, lets Taemin's hands wander. He hadn't anticipated anything like this, but it feels _so_ good that he doesn't want Taemin to stop. His head floats with the dizzy, heightened awareness of his own skin that comes with being half-asleep. He feels the soft bruises Taemin sucks into his inner thighs, the way he nuzzles his face into Jongin's stomach, eyelashes tickling the smooth skin there, then taps Jongin's hip to roll him up and onto all fours.

Jongin keeps his eyes closed, swaying gently on his hands and knees, trying to find his balance as he focuses on the slick, obscene noises coming from behind him. The anticipation builds.

They've long since forgone using any protection when they do this. It's just them, anyway, Taemin had said reasonably the first time they'd discussed it. After everything they've been through, this is a minor offering of trust, all things considered. Jongin likes it better this way, to strip away the barriers and feel every twitch of Taemin's cock shiver inside of him like they're wired together, hooked up to the same nervous system. He reaches behind him, blindly, and strokes the back of Taemin's neck to encourage him to keep going.

Taemin surges deep into Jongin, pulling Jongin's whole body off-kilter, dragging him by the hips down the length of the mattress until Jongin grabs at the sheets and holds on, his back curved, his face crushed into the pillows. 

Jongin holds still for a moment, then crumples under the weight of his own body. His wrists ache, especially the left one—it hadn't healed right four years ago, despite Taemin's best efforts to get it set properly. Taemin's right there to catch him, though, his arm around Jongin's chest to hold him upright. 

Taemin sinks his teeth into Jongin's shoulder hard enough to leave a mark and comes, his release hot as blood, in Jongin and on him, across his back and thighs. He finishes with a loud, guttural noise that goes straight to Jongin's cock, then flips Jongin onto his back. He presses a few sloppy kisses against Jongin's open mouth before crawling down the mattress to settle himself between Jongin's legs.

"You know—they're going to call—any—second," Jongin pants, and then cries out, voice breaking, as Taemin angles his fingers precisely the way he always does when he wants to provoke that kind of reaction from Jongin. He's so familiar with Jongin's body, treats it as an extension of his own.

"We always have time for this," Taemin assures him, the ring of his fingers tightening just under the ridge of Jongin's cockhead. Jongin's body buckles of its own volition, trained to submit to Taemin's hands. He lies back, leg tossed carelessly over Taemin's shoulder, his heel resting against Taemin's ribs, watching the tousled mop of hair move between his legs. Taemin sucks cock enthusiastically, like he's running a shock and awe campaign to completely overwhelm Jongin. And he does—every time. Jongin is powerless when Taemin puts his mind to it, shuddering, arching against the sheets, his body rising like a wave between Taemin's warm mouth and his crooked fingers.

"Fuck," Jongin says when he's coming down from release, heady with the rush of it all. He rakes his hand through Taemin's shower-damp hair and smiles fondly. 

"See. Told you we had time," Taemin murmurs. 

"Yeah," Jongin says. "You did." The gun's still on the floor, winking up at them. Safety's off. 

Taemin's just reaching between Jongin's legs to get things going again when the burner phone Baekhyun had left for them rings.

"Fuck," Jongin says again. Taemin gets to it first.

"Hello? Yes. I made it. Yeah." His mouth draws into a line. "Alright. See you soon." He hangs up and rolls away.

"What?" Jongin asks. He thinks about moving, but after that much physical exertion, his muscles are jelly. Probably wasn't a good idea to be fucking around when there's real work to be done.

"Come on," Taemin says, getting to his feet. "Get dressed. They're waiting for us down the block."

Jongin's lip pushes out as his source of warmth moves away, leaving him trembling as the cold air meets the sweat on his skin. Taemin laughs and socks him in the stomach.

"You look pathetic," he says, and then kisses him anyway.

☠☠☠


	3. Chapter 3

☠☠☠

Jongin's surprised at how dark it's gotten outside. Autumn always gets like this, with the early sunsets and the dreary skies, but it's still a nasty shock every time. A chilly breeze pushes past them as they walk. Taemin slips his fingers in between Jongin's and squeezes, then drops Jongin's hand in favor of blowing warm air into his own fist.

Baekhyun's parked two streets over, in a different car this time. No children's car seat in the back of this one. He looks moderately better than he had the last time Jongin had seen him—obviously had time to go home and take a shower, maybe grab a catnap. He grins when Jongin slumps into the passenger seat.

"You didn't sleep at all, did you?"

Taemin laughs from the backseat. "Jongin did. A little."

"You hungry?" Baekhyun asks, checking his rear-view mirror once, then again. He's cautious, taking note of their surroundings, making sure nobody's watching them. Jongin can't imagine why, really—nobody knows they're back in the country, so nobody knows to look for them. "Soojung insisted on feeding you. Jongdae's coming by later, too, as soon as he's finished up at work."

Jongin's stomach rumbles audibly. 

"I'll take that as a yes," Baekhyun says, nudging the car into drive. 

 

Shortly after Baekhyun and Soojung had gotten married, they'd moved from Baekhyun's cramped apartment to a large house on the southern outskirts of the city. As with most things that happened post-incarceration, Jongin's only seen pictures of it (he'd missed their wedding, too). 

Baekhyun keeps up a steady stream of chatter for the whole drive—mostly mundane details, local elections, work politics, some new celebrity scandal that's been dominating the papers for weeks on end. Jongin nods in all the right places, and Taemin's surprisingly well-informed on every topic Baekhyun touches upon, considering this city isn't their home anymore, and hasn't been for years. Back in New York, Jongin usually walks right past the newspaper kiosks on the street, even the Korean language ones, and now he's regretting it, because even though the city's landscape looks exactly the same— _so much has changed_ , even in such a short amount of time.

The house is a respectable two-story modern structure, set down a side street in a quiet neighborhood, and gated, with high brick walls to block out prying eyes from passersby on the street, which strikes Jongin as surprising on a government paycheck until he remembers that Soojung's working in the private sector now. They can afford it.

"We're in the wrong business," Taemin says, neck craning up at the house. His eyes are wide with astonishment. He'd clearly been expecting something closer to the apartment complex back across the river.

Jongin slams the car door shut behind him and follows Taemin up the walkway, dropping his chin onto Taemin's shoulder. "You'd hate living in a place like this."

"We could hire a maid," Taemin says, even though he knows that wasn't what Jongin meant at all. Jongin grows warm at the word _we_ , the way he always does. He's not sure if he's ever going to get used to it. He opens his mouth to retort, but Baekhyun beats him to the punch.

"You guys coming in?" he asks, already turning the key in the lock. "Or are you just going to stay out in the yard all night? It's getting cold." 

There's a basket of slippers by the door and the house is warm and cozy, lived-in. The air is fragrant and garlicky, thick with chili spice and something Jongin's having trouble placing. Jongin's mouth waters at the prospect of eating his first home-cooked meal in years. He and Taemin are both pretty hopeless—even after his time living in the jungle and fending for himself, Taemin still burns or over-salts everything he touches. Jongin's much the same. They order take-out a lot. 

Eagerly, Jongin toes his shoes off and pads through the living room in the direction of Baekhyun's voice. He finds Baekhyun with Soojung in the kitchen, bent over a large saucepan of something on the front burner. Soojung turns at the sound of Jongin's slippers meeting the kitchen tile and breaks out into a sunny, excited smile at his arrival.

"Welcome home," she says, abandoning the food cooking on the stove to Baekhyun. She wraps her arms around him, and Jongin returns the hug tightly, as excited to see her as he would have been to see one of his sisters.

"Good to see you," he says, and means it. "It's been too long." Baekhyun came to see him every weekend he was inside, but Soojung's visits were limited, especially after she got pregnant. 

"It has," she agrees. "Much too long. You look tired. Long flight? Didn't you get much sleep?"

"Hyung didn't spring for business class," Jongin teases. "I'm okay. I napped when I got in. A couple of hours is better than nothing."

"Still." She catches sight of Taemin over Jongin's shoulder, hanging back awkwardly in the doorframe, his expression carefully blank as he waits for instruction from Jongin. Soojung steps towards him, arms open. "The infamous Lee Taemin. In the flesh, at last."

Taemin doubles over in a deep, extended bow that lasts until Soojung pats him on the head and takes hold of his hands.

"Looks like you took good care of him. He's in one piece. Thank you," she says, smiling at him. Relief, or something like it, floods into Jongin's bones. He can see Taemin feels similarly, the way the creases in his forehead relax. 

Just then, Jongin notices a huge pair of eyes peering from around the doorframe, barely at Taemin's thigh-level. If he didn't know any better, he wouldn't have recognized her, even though he's got the photographs of her as an infant in the top drawer of his bedside table at home. She's grown so much since then. Her hair's long enough to be pulled back into two tufted pigtails, clipped by two little duck barrettes. Matching socks. She's clutching a soft rabbit toy in both hands. There's no mistaking her for a baby. Jongin's breath catches in his throat.

"Jonghee," Baekhyun says softly. "Come here and meet your uncle Jongin."

Jonghee hears her name and turns her face into her hands, giggling shyly. The rabbit drops to the floor. Soojung lifts her up and kisses her face, which provokes more squealing laughter from Jonghee. "Say hello," Soojung encourages. "Say, 'Hello, Uncle Jongin!'"

"Hi," Jonghee says, then buries her face in Soojung's neck. 

"Look at her," Taemin breathes, side-stepping over to Jongin. It occurs to Jongin that Taemin probably hasn't been around too many children—at least, not ones who weren't taught to clean and reassemble firearms as soon as they were able to walk. He remembers a handful of kids back at the camp, but they were gangly pre-teens, rough boys cusping on puberty. Nothing like Jonghee. "She's so cute."

Soojung beams. "Jonghee, say, 'Hello, Uncle Taemin!'"

"I don't think that's a good idea—" Baekhyun begins sharply. Soojung shoots him a withering look and gestures at the stove, where the pot's starting to boil over. Taemin shrinks into himself, the discomfort returning to his hunched shoulders. 

"It's fine, Taemin, don't listen to him," she says, speaking over Baekhyun's protests. "She's just shy. It's okay."

Jonghee peeks out from her mother's hair, her cherubic toddler mouth pushed out into an 'o' of curiosity. Taemin leans in, his eyes twinkling. "Hi," he whispers. "I'm Taemin, are you Jonghee?" Jongin can tell, with the look on Taemin's face—he's completely smitten.

Jongin's heart thuds crazily in his fingertips, watching Taemin extend his hand out for a tiny high five. Jonghee pushes her fist into Taemin's palm and bursts into giggles when Taemin staggers back a few steps.

"You're so strong!" he gasps.

"No!" Jonghee laughs.

"You are," Taemin says solemnly. "Are you Wonder Woman?"

Jongin catches the smirk on Baekhyun's face as he turns back towards the stove. Soojung's smiling, and Jongin's feeling more than a little smitten himself. That Taemin can still surprise him, that Taemin seems to win people over everywhere he goes—it's one of Jongin's favorite things about him. It's how he can trust that Taemin will always be alright, because Taemin adapts to his surroundings better than anyone.

Now, Jongin watches Taemin, crouching on the floor to retrieve the rabbit toy for Jonghee, and feels like he's been kicked in the stomach. Taemin looks so natural, like he belongs in the middle of a living room somewhere, playing with his own niece or nephew. Taemin's slid into a lot of roles, seamlessly moving from arms dealer in Thailand to fixer in Seoul to salaryman in New York, and he's been brilliant at all of them. But this, Jongin thinks, might be the world's greatest shame—that 'uncle' will never be a role he or Taemin can play full-time.

☠☠☠

Jongdae finally shows up sometime after the dinner things have been put away. Soojung's just taken Jonghee for a bath when Jongdae pushes open the front door without ceremony and kicks off his loafers without much care as to where they end up. His hair is disheveled from the wind.

"Jongin. You made it. Thanks for coming," he says, dropping a huge stack of files onto the floor. "I know it was short-notice." He yanks Jongin into a crushing bear hug that forces all of the air out of Jongin's lungs.

"Good—to see—you too, hyung," Jongin gasps, trying to claw his way out of Jongdae's grip. Despite his small stature, Jongdae's always been surprisingly strong. Too much time spent sitting around at the office without anything to do except wait for reports from his field agents, and possibly do a billion pushups. Nice to know some things have stayed the same.

"Where's the little peanut?" Jongdae asks, releasing Jongin. "I wanted to read her a story before bedtime. I promised her last time I was here."

"Too late," Baekhyun says, rounding the corner with his own armful of files. "Soojung's putting her to bed right now. Told you to get here sooner."

"You should've waited for me," Jongdae says petulantly, sticking out his lower lip. Completely unbecoming for someone who's supposed to be a grown-up; even sillier when you remember he works in national intelligence. "I told you I was caught up dealing with this Moonkyu thing, and then the director came in—I'm lucky I got away at all."

"Not my problem." Baekhyun gestures at Jongin and Taemin. "Come on. We've been working in the office—let me show you what Soojung's got so far, and we can bring you up to speed."

Jongdae shoots a noticeable sideways glance at Taemin, and Jongin catches the slight way his lips purse before he redirects his attention to what Baekhyun's saying.

 

The office could have been a fairly respectable study at one point in time; now, it looks more like a tornado passed through, scattering books and papers everywhere in its wake. There's a corkboard full of pushpins mounted on the wall, littered with an array of newspaper clippings and post-it notes, bits of string linking article to article like something out of _A Beautiful Mind_.

"Jesus," Jongin says, doing a full 360 spin to take a look at everything. He'd thought _their_ apartment had been a mess, but even their combined reluctance to hang up their laundry has nothing on this room. "You've been busy." 

Taemin's immediately riveted by the board's contents. He stands close, face only a few inches away, head moving left to right and then back again, a deep frown on his face as he tries to make sense of what he's reading.

"What's this?" he asks, jabbing his finger at an article towards the top of the board. "Talking about an intelligence leak in the United States? This was last year. What does that have to do with Jongin?"

"I know, it's kind of—gotten out of control the past few weeks," Baekhyun explains, making an aborted attempt to gather some of the stray papers together before he abandons it and comes to stand next to Taemin. "Uh. Hold on. Yes." He snaps his fingers. "Okay, we can start there."

"First, what do you know?" Jongdae asks Jongin. "I assume he told you this has to do with your case—that we can possibly clear your name, if everything goes according to plan."

Jongin doesn't want to get his hopes up. At this point, being cleared is entirely symbolic. They can't take back the three years he'd spent in jail. They can't stop people from associating his name and image with the words 'national traitor'. Even if they do clear his name, his life's been changed forever. "Hyung said that Moonkyu knows something, but he doesn't want to speak to anyone except me," he says. "Do we know if the information is credible?"

"He's always been a very reliable source. You remember," Jongdae says, shrugging. "He reached out to us. Warned us that something big was in the works, and that it had to do with you, so we needed to find you."

"Me? What could it possibly have to do with me—I'm out of the game," Jongin says, bewildered. "Somebody's still trying to use my name?"

"You're starting in the wrong place," Soojung says, breezing into the room. She smells like baby shampoo and her hair's knotted at the nape of her neck. "No, Jongin—not you specifically. But you were the first, and there's a pattern now. Come see."

☠☠☠

Jongin tries to keep up, but there's just so much information being thrown at him at once, and he's still jetlagged as fuck, and three separate people trying to tell three separate versions of the same story all at once, starting in different places. His head starts to ache, his vision swimming, as Soojung pushes a bulleted list into his hands.

"See, the inconsistencies, they're all right here. I catalogued them by date, although—I think some of these are more closely related than others. Kind of a spider web thing."

"Uh-huh," Jongin says. He's got no clue what she just gave him. 

They've been talking for the past two hours about some circumstances that they claim are similar to Jongin's circumstances—spies going missing in South America and the Middle East, only to show up months later, incarcerated, tortured, unable to speak. Jongin can't quite see the connection between all of them—they're all from different countries, accused of different crimes. Some of them were found dead; others, miles away from where they'd gone missing, claiming they'd been assigned specific, top-secret tasks by some voice on their secure line, claiming to work for an international intelligence agency, although no records of these missions ever turned up. Some, like Jongin—the lucky ones, he's realizing—were just burned outright, fired without an extended investigation, jailed, then forgotten about.

But Soojung sees a pattern there, and Baekhyun and Jongdae seem to agree, although they've been arguing off and on all night about how the dots are connected, and why. 

"You look like you're going to pass out," Jongdae says, wrinkling his nose. "Did you catch anything we just said?"

"Sort of," Jongin says, rubbing his neck. He tries to stifle a yawn in his fist, and mostly fails. Taemin's already dozed off, slumped in a desk chair, his head pillowed by a large stack of classified files in manila folders.

Baekhyun's blinking tiredly too. "I think we should just pick this up tomorrow," he says, getting to his feet and stretching. "I don't know about you, but I just flew a round trip around the world, and I'm supposed to be back at the office at 0700."

"You big baby," Jongdae says. "Sucks getting old, doesn't it?"

"We're the same age, _asshole_." Baekhyun elbows him right in the ribs, then grins wickedly when he makes a loud wail of protest.

"You two," Soojung says, voice sharp as a knife. "If you wake up Jonghee, I'll kill you." Then, to Jongin: "Are you going to be okay for your meeting tomorrow with Moonkyu?"

"Yeah, sure," Jongin says, squinting down at the list again. "We don't know what he's got, right?"

"Right," she confirms. "We _think_ he might have a lead on who's behind those weird voice-on-the-phone missions, especially since he's so familiar with that area of South America, but he wouldn't answer any of our questions when we pinned him down." She smiles. "Maybe he'll be more forthcoming with you."

"Jongin's got it," Jongdae says, waving Soojung off. "He's a professional. It's like riding a bike. You never forget how to work an asset." He looks over at the slumbering Taemin, then at Jongin. His expression is unreadable. "I'll be waiting in the car. Don't take too long."

 

 

As they're driving back to the safehouse, it occurs to Jongin that nobody's mentioned Chanyeol yet. Chanyeol, the lone civilian, the one who believed in Jongin's innocence even when others were in doubt, the first to accept what he'd done for Taemin without judgment. Jongin feels like a terrible friend for not asking sooner. It's been a crazy couple of days, and he's barely slept, but still. It should've occurred to him. "Heard from Chanyeol?" he asks. 

Jongdae flicks his turn signal up to indicate a left turn, then turns right. One of those old spy habits that's hard to shake, even when you're not on an assignment: always drive like an asshole, just to make sure the guy behind you isn't trying to tail you somewhere. "Alright? I think. It's been pretty busy at work. I haven't really seen him since the wedding."

"Wedding?" Jongin whips his head around. "He got married? When? I didn't even know he was dating anyone." In the backseat, Taemin sits upright and groans, peering at Jongin in the rear-view mirror, his hair a mess.

"Relax." Jongdae chuckles, pausing to look back at Taemin for a moment before he cruises through a yellow light. "He didn't get married—Yura did. His sister. You remember Yura, right?"

Jongin's known Chanyeol since he was nineteen years old. Of course he remembers Chanyeol's sister. Tall, wide-eyed and beautiful—bore a striking resemblance to Chanyeol, which gave the guys in their old unit a lot of ammunition. The first time they caught a glimpse of a picture of her they'd accused Chanyeol of cross-dressing and pretending to be his own sister, just for laughs. The resemblance was so uncanny that Jongin was nearly inclined to believe it, until he visited Chanyeol at the restaurant one evening and had dinner with both Park siblings at the same time. He'd met her on a dozen or so occasions since—mostly family things Chanyeol had dragged him to in the name of 'socializing', which was really just Chanyeol's polite way of trying to say that he was worried Jongin was working too hard.

"Get this," Jongdae continues, voice booming with delight at this particular reveal. "She married _Kyungsoo_."

This really does shock Jongin. He can't muffle his astonished gasp in time. "Kyungsoo? You're kidding."

Jongdae laughs. "Love at first sight, I guess. First time I've seen Kyungsoo _blush_ , and it was—well, it was unsettling. But the reception was really beautiful."

"I had no idea," Jongin murmurs, looking down at his hands. Yet another reminder that this isn't his life anymore. "I could've—sent a card or a gift or something, I didn't know."

"There's no way you could've known," Jongdae says gently. "It's been a while since anyone's heard from you. We figured you were happy and didn't want a reminder of—well, what happened."

"I never called him when I got to New York," Jongin murmurs. He feels Taemin's hand snake up the side of the headrest to fluff the hair at the crown of his head, trying to get him to stop sounding so morose. It doesn't work, but it's a comforting gesture just the same. Jongin leans into it. "I wasn't really sure what to tell him. It took a while to get settled, and by then it felt like it was too late." 

It sounds lame now that he's giving these thoughts a voice. It's been a year, _a whole year_ and he hasn't reached out or reestablished contact with anyone back in Seoul. Chanyeol probably thought he was dead.

"Nobody's mad at you for starting over, Jongin," Jongdae says, breaking into Jongin's internal self-flagellation. "That was kind of the point of getting you out of the country."

"How much does Chanyeol know? About what happened, I mean. I know there was stuff in the newspapers, but—does he know the truth? Did you ever tell him?"

Jongdae hesitates for a moment. "We... filled him in, yes."

"Everything?" Jongin's eyebrows lift. "The whole story. Really."

"After everything he overheard—and then your _trial_ dragged on, and all those articles dragging up shit—and everything that came after, it was inevitable that he had more of an idea of what you were up to than a civilian's supposed to. And we didn't want him to think that the things the newspapers were saying about you were true." Jongin catches a glimmer of the old Jongdae in the way a sly grin twists up on his face. "We could've killed him, I guess, but Baekhyun said it was easier to just trust him."

"More like Kyungsoo wouldn't let you kill him," Jongin says, cracking a smile. "Chanyeol's safe. He won't say anything."

"He'd better be good at keeping secrets, or we're all going to end up in a cell," Jongdae jokes. Then, belatedly, it hits him: "Shit. I'm sorry, I didn't—sorry. I know it wasn't easy for you in there."

Jongin ignores it—Jongdae's joke, his apology, everything. He'd prefer to be temporarily deaf when his prison sentence comes up in conversation than acknowledge it, or talk about it. He's barely said much about it to Taemin, and Taemin's—well. Taemin knows Jongin better than anyone. "It's still early. He'll still be at the restaurant. Can we stop by?"

Jongdae glances at the clock. It's just past midnight. "I've got work in the morning—"

"Just to say hi. I don't know how long I'll be in the country. If we get what we need from Moonkyu tomorrow night, we need to get out of here on the next plane, right? Please, hyung," Jongin wheedles, and knows Jongdae's going to give in when he twists the radio back on and cranks the volume up to drown out Jongin's voice.

 

 

Going to Chanyeol's is always accompanied by an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. Jongin's traveled these streets a thousand times and could probably tell you if a brick was out of place in any alleyway you cared to point to. He's surprised, then, as they pull up outside the bar only to see that all the lights are off. It's the only black spot on the whole block, windows dark, sidewalk vacant.

Jongdae checks the dashboard clock, then his watch, then his phone, just to verify he's got the time right. Close enough, give or take a minute between the three timepieces. "Does he close early on weeknights?"

"No, never," Jongin says, fumbling with the door. Taemin's close behind him. Jongdae gets out of the car, too, but stands near the open driver's side door, hands splayed out on the roof of the car. It's cold outside, cold enough that Jongdae's breath clouds his face in thick, white puffs every time he exhales.

"Family emergency, maybe?"

Jongin shakes his head slowly. "Whenever something happened and Chanyeol needed a night off, Kyungsoo'd take over. They'd _never_ just—"

"Kyungsoo's family too, now," Jongdae reminds him. "Maybe they took a vacation. Chanyeol works his ass off here, I know he deserves one."

Jongin pounds on the front door. "He wouldn't take a vacation this late in the year. He should _be_ here—he does inventory after close every night, it doesn't make sense, not this early." Upstairs seems to be abandoned, too—Chanyeol's apartment up on the second story above the restaurant is dark and the blinds are drawn.

"Jongin. Come on, don't make a scene," Jongdae warns when Jongin steps aside and bellows Chanyeol's name through his cupped hands. "You're not supposed to be here, remember? Look, leave it. We'll come back tomorrow. He's probably in bed."

"Just let me—" Jongin stops short as a dim light appears in the front window of Chanyeol's apartment. A cellphone, maybe, or a small flashlight. A hand pulls down the blinds, and then just as quickly, the light vanishes and the blinds snap back into place. "Did you see that?"

Taemin slides in behind Jongin, hand in the crook of his elbow, trying to pull him towards the car. "Jongin, this doesn't feel right. I think we need to get out of here."

"What if he's in trouble?" Jongin demands. "He's in there, I saw him. This is weird, Taemin—this doesn't feel right either," he says, gesturing at the silent restaurant. " _This_ is not Chanyeol."

Back past Taemin, Jongdae's frowning, and then his expression warps into one of panic as a flash of blue light erupts from somewhere down the street. "Oh, shit," he says. "Get in the car, the cops are here."

"For us?" Jongin asks stupidly, even as he stops on the sidewalk to glance over his shoulder at Chanyeol's window. It stays dark. Taemin drags him away and practically shoves him into the backseat before he dives in himself and slams the door behind them.

"No, probably not," Jongdae says, gesturing at the raucous clubgoers just down the street. They're all filing out for a smoke before last call, gathered in clusters down the sidewalk, oblivious. The cop car slows to a stop just across the street from where Jongdae's parked. His hands tighten on the wheel. They wait, holding their breath, Taemin's body pressed over Jongin's to keep him out of sight until the officer approaches a throng of shrieking girls wearing dresses too skimpy for the weather outside. They're safe—for now. "Still," Jongdae says, turning the key in the ignition, "I'm not going to take any chances. We're going."

☠☠☠


	4. Chapter 4

☠☠☠

Jongin's still riled up long after Jongdae drops them off at the safe house, promising to return the following evening to take Jongin to the meeting with Moonkyu. He tries to go through his files again, but he can't concentrate. Every time he flips a page he realizes he can't remember a word of what he'd just skimmed through. He keeps thinking about the cell phone light in Chanyeol's window, and the sign on the door. He still doesn't feel right about the whole thing. Something's _off_ , and he's not going to be able to rest until he figures out what it is.

Taemin sits down in the middle of the floor and starts systematically dismantling the Norinco. Jongin gives up on the files and starts pacing the length of the tiny room, careful not to step on the pieces of handgun strewn across the floorboards with his bare feet.

"Jongin," Taemin says after he's gotten it all taken apart and arranged neatly on a piece of paper towel. "Sit down. You're going to wear a hole right through to the basement." From his luggage, he's unearthed a tiny satchel full of various tubes —solvent, lubricant—a few brushes with nylon bristles, and cotton swabs. Because of course Taemin travels with his own materials for gun maintenance, regardless of whether or not he's carrying a gun. Jongin would laugh if he weren't so worried about what's become of Chanyeol.

"I should go back—"

"Not tonight," Taemin says, hand extended, reaching to catch hold of Jongin's belt loops. "Not when that street's crawling with cops. You saw them."

"But—"

"Jongin." Taemin's voice gets soft. "It's not safe out there. Stay here. With me." He's not serious like this very often, so Jongin is immediately obedient. He drops to his knees next to where Taemin's working, then lowers himself even further to pillow his cheek on Taemin's thigh like a massive house cat.

"Tomorrow, then," Jongin says, watching Taemin push the nylon brush through the bore of the gun's barrel. He withdraws it and holds it inches from his face to inspect the bristles. A slight frown creases his face. He pulls out the solvent bottle again and uncaps it.

"Tomorrow," he agrees. He nudges Jongin's head with his elbow, gently, to compensate for his hands being too filthy to stroke Jongin's hair. "I'll reach out. I had a few contacts in that area. They might still be operating there. Maybe they've heard something about it."

Jongin hums, temporarily mollified by Taemin's promise. He stretches across Taemin's lap and retrieves a cotton patch from the floor. He's watched Taemin clean guns a hundred, a thousand times. He knows the rhythm Taemin falls into, his routine predictable and unchanging. Taemin could do this with his eyes closed (and they've tested that—he'd even tried it once on a bet). It takes a moment for Taemin to notice that Jongin's helping, anticipating the very thing he'd need next. He takes it from Jongin and nudges him with his elbow again, fond and thankful.

☠☠☠

"Tell me about him," Taemin says later. He's washed his hands three times already but he still smells faintly of gun oil, which shouldn't be as appealing to Jongin as it is. It's one of those scents that hits him harder than he expects—like Taemin's cigarettes, or his sweat. Even just the thick, green smell of vegetation is enough to do it sometimes. Somehow, it makes him feel safer, because it means that Taemin isn't too far away.

Jongin grunts, half-asleep and hazy, trying to catch the thread of conversation. "Who?"

"Chanyeol." Taemin tosses a leg over Jongin's hip, their chests pressed flush against each other in the dark. Normally, this would be the precursor to something else, wherever Taemin's hands decided to take it, but now, Taemin just tucks his face into the crook of Jongin's neck and exhales slowly. "You don't talk much about before."

"Not much to say," Jongin says carefully. His hand curves to fit the back of Taemin's head. "Met him during my service. We stayed in touch."

Taemin's quiet. "Jongdae said Chanyeol didn't know—what you were. Before."

"You were the first unauthorized person I ever told."

"He never suspected? What did you tell him?"

"I think he thought I was in government contracts, or something. Diplomacy." He laughs, but it's a dry sound, humorless. "He wasn't too far off, I guess. I don't think he could've guessed the reality, though."

"Even though you were friends."

"He was probably my best friend," Jongin admits. "Despite keeping that secret from him. He trusted me."

Even in the dark, even though Jongin can't see his face, he can tell Taemin's really thinking about that one. "What about Baekhyun?"

Jongin shrugs. "I'd known Chanyeol for a long time before I was assigned to a team with Baekhyun. Baekhyun—he took care of me after I went inside. Brought me books, or news about you, sometimes, when he had any."

"I see." Taemin always gets very quiet on the rare occasions that Jongin openly mentions his three years in prison. Jongin can feel the curiosity burning in him, but since that first night, Taemin hasn't asked him anything. He's waiting, trusting that Jongin will talk when he's ready.

"Visiting hours were on Saturdays," Jongin says, offering him a little something for his patience. "Baekhyun was always there first thing. We had ten minutes and then they'd take me back."

Taemin tightens his grip around Jongin's waist.

"Soojung came too, sometimes. Before Jonghee."

"Jongdae, too?"

"No. Not Jongdae. He was—it took him a while. To forgive me for what I'd done." Even though Taemin can't see his face, Jongin forces himself to smile anyway. "He got it worse than anyone else. I think... I think he believed they really would fire him if he stayed in touch with me. After everything."

There's a brief, tickling sensation on Jongin's clavicle. Taemin's mouth, pressing a kiss on the soft skin of Jongin's neck. Jongin returns with one of his own, softer, on Taemin's hairline, and then rolls away, too exhausted, too overwhelmed. Taemin slots himself in behind Jongin, close enough that his body heat keeps Jongin warm, but he doesn't wrap him in a bear hug the way he normally does and just lies there, matching his breaths to Jongin's until their chests rise and fall as one.

☠☠☠

By the time the sun rises, Taemin's turned the safe house into the second incarnation of Baekhyun's office. He's got pieces of paper strewn everywhere, stacked haphazardly in shuffled piles, an organizational system that seems to make sense to him, at least. He's pulled a red pen from somewhere and keeps stopping, head bowed, to make notes in the margins.

Jongin peers out from under the covers, eyes scrunching with the harsh light of day. "Did you sleep?" he asks, croaking, his voice a swallowed bullfrog. "What time is it?"

In reply, Taemin flicks his hand to the counter. Coffee, probably long-cold by now, and some bread. So he'd been up long enough to go get breakfast, and then return to this mess. There's no way he slept more than a couple of hours. 

Jongin crawls to the edge of the mattress on his elbows and looks on, face still twisted, squinting. "What are you doing?" He pinches the bridge of his nose and watches the telltale sparks of a burgeoning migraine skitter across his vision. A combination of exhaustion and dehydration has left him feeling like his skull's about to split in two. 

"Hold on," Taemin says, holding two sheets side-by-side for comparison. He sets them both in the pile to his right and swivels to look at Jongin. A smile warms his serious expression. "Good morning, sunshine."

Jongin swallows his pain, points at the stacks of paper. "What did you do?"

"Relax," Taemin says. "Come see." He slides over a few feet on the cold wooden floor to make room for Jongin to sit next to him. Jongin clambers down, comforter still wrapped around his shoulders.

"You didn't sleep at all," Jongin repeats, leaning forward on his elbows. Taemin's always like this—manic to a fault, sometimes, unable to relax until everything's taken care of. There's always something new to worry about, so there's always a reason for Taemin not to settle down.

"A little," Taemin says, ruffling Jongin's hair. Even that hurts Jongin, just a little—the dull ache nestling behind his ears, the base of his skull. He tries sharpening his focus, whittling away the minor annoyance of his throbbing headache, hoping it'll go away if he just ignores it.

"I don't even know what I'm looking at," Jongin says, rubbing at his eyes. Taemin's hand curls into the hair at the nape of Jongin's neck and then falls to his side to hang limply.

"Soojung thinks all of these incidents are related, and I think she's right, but I don't think tracking their movements is going to get you anywhere." Taemin points at a file and a familiar name jumps out at Jongin: _KIM JONGIN. ID SK8892837-0. DISMISSED 23-09-01._ "You, for instance. They weren't using _you_ , they were just using your operations as a cover for something else."

Jongin nudges the file away with the back of his hand, a sick lump forming in his throat. He slumps back against the bed, thumbs digging into his temples. "So?"

"So, I don't think it's a one-size-fits-all operation. They haven't done the same thing twice." Taemin finally notices Jongin's discomfort and pats his knee, twines his fingers with Jongin's and brings the loose tangle into his lap. "From what I can tell, there's someone with a backdoor into global intelligence communities. Not just—governmental ones, but the black ops ones. Somebody, _somehow_... knew what you did for me. You were good at your job. When you presented an opportunity to be useful, they took it. You didn't actually break protocol in Colombia. It was a clean job, by all accounts."

"Until the end, anyway," Jongin says, remembering Natalia. If Jongdae hadn't realized something had gone wrong, Jongin'd be in a shallow grave somewhere by the side of the road. "So, somebody's collecting information on spies to use as blackmail?"

"Somebody's profiting off of your mistakes." When Taemin says _your_ he means the general _you_ , he's referring to spies as a unified group, but it still stings a little. Jongin looks over at Taemin, his biggest mistake of all, and even though he's staring a dangerous mission in the face, he's quietly glad that his mistake followed him all the way across the world.

☠☠☠

Jongdae shows up after dark to take him to the prearranged meeting spot to speak with Moonkyu. Jongin's head is still bothering him, which means it takes him an extra beat to realize that Taemin's getting ready to tag along. He sticks the Norinco in the back of his jeans and tugs his sweatshirt over it, hiding the line of his weapon from view.

"No, you can't," he says, when he sees Jongdae's headlights flash outside. The signal. "You stay here, wait for me to come back." He puts his hand up to bar Taemin from pushing past him out the door, but Taemin barrels through as easily as if Jongin were made of straw.

"I'm not letting you go in there without backup."

"It's _Moonkyu_ —I've known him since basic—"

"You ever think Moonkyu's being watched, too?"

Jongin studies Taemin's face, surprised to see that there isn't even a trace of humor in his eyes. "I've got Jongdae," he says after a moment. He feels an odd bubble of panic rise in his chest. Maybe Baekhyun'd been right, maybe it was a dumb idea to let Taemin come along. Jongin might be recognizable to the general public as _that traitor_ but Taemin's got enemies in dark places. "He secured the meet."

"Jongdae's great, but I don't know him." Taemin pats his back. "I'll keep my distance. I don't want to blow it for you. But… just in case."

☠☠☠

Jongdae doesn't seem surprised that Taemin's sliding into the backseat. Even tosses him a brief hello, although he hasn't warmed up enough to exchange pleasantries beyond that. Jongin hasn't even finished buckling his seatbelt before Jongdae's stomping on the accelerator, sending the car careening into the dark street and away.

"Running late," Jongdae explains as he does an overly complicated circuit of the neighborhood.They'll definitely be running late if he keeps driving like that, but Jongin knows better than to argue with him. Jongin settles back in his seat.

It's early enough in the evening that the city hasn't gone to sleep yet. The glossy, slick, early winter rain from this afternoon has given way and left behind a sheen of ice on everything. It's not a hard freeze, but it's enough to make everything look dreamy and plastic. Surreal. Jongin closes his eyes for a moment, feeling homesick for the first time in ages. Confronted with the very place he'd left behind… he didn't realize he'd been missing it this much.

Jongdae's saying something. Jongin opens his eyes.

"I spoke with Chanyeol earlier today."

Jongin sits bolt upright, cityscape forgotten. "Yeah?"

"He said he was out of town last night. He's sorry he missed you."

"Out of town? Jongdae. Did you tell him someone was in his apartment?"

Jongdae shrugs. "I didn't see it—are you sure it wasn't a reflection? That whole street… it's all blinking neon, you could've made a mistake."

"I didn't." Jongin knows he didn't. He saw someone in that apartment—he saw _Chanyeol_ in that apartment. Why is he lying? Why is Jongdae buying it? He turns. Challenges the story. "Where was he?"

"He didn't say."

"Can we—"

Jongdae takes his eyes off the road long enough to give Jongin one of his hyung glances. The look in his eyes is so easy to read. _Drop it._

"I want to see him."

"Not a good idea. He's busy—and you'll be out of here after tonight."

Jongin pulls at the seatbelt across his chest, annoyed. "Sure. Bring me in to do you a favor and that's it, you're done, go home, Jongin."

"It's not like that."

Taemin speaks up from the backseat. "A compromise? Maybe Chanyeol can come—"

Jongdae cuts him off, tone curt. Clipped. "I'm not involving a civilian in this." He pauses, then amends: " _Another_ civilian."

Jongin feels desperate. Jongdae says that Chanyeol's okay, but it's not enough—he needs to see it. The paranoia creeping under his skin might be just that, paranoia, but it's choking him. It's been years since he's had to be a spy, to read people, to trust his instincts, and they're screaming at him now. He can't articulate _why_ he's so agitated, but it doesn't make the feeling any less overwhelming. "Hyung—it's been a year, can't we just—"

"Jongin," Jongdae says lightly. He slows to a stop at a red light, eyes still trained on the road ahead. "There's just no time. Please."

☠☠☠

Moonkyu looks much the same, which is another shock to Jongin. He rises to greet him when Jongin stumbles into the food tent, even hooks an arm around his neck and pulls him into something of a brotherly hug. He steps back and Jongin notices the wide, pink scar across his cheek, illuminated by the soft yellow lights hanging above them. Moonkyu puts his hand over it when he catches Jongin staring.

"It could've been worse."

Jongin feels a stab of regret, his mouth bitter with adrenaline. "I—" he starts, and then nothing. Moonkyu puts his hand on Jongin's wrist. Grins. His face looks a little twisted, scarier with the lights throwing shadows across his scarred face. But it's still that same warm smile, still the same Moonkyu, under all of that.

"I let my guard down." He gestures to where he's been sitting, already halfway through a can of Hite. "Come on, join me. Let's eat before we talk. Chicken still your favorite?"

 

It's been a while since Jongin's tried to go shot for shot with someone other than Taemin. And with Taemin, back at home, drinking's more of a precursor to what comes later, a warmth that strips them of their inhibitions (what few remain, at least). Jongin tips another shot of soju back, sighing loudly, mouth open and burning. It's weird without Taemin's mouth as a chaser, soothing it away.

But Moonkyu's getting him drunk on purpose. Nobody's paying attention to them now that the bottles are lined up next to them on the counter in two neat rows. Just two idiots getting drunk on a cold weeknight. Even the old woman running the food cart has stopped smiling their way, busy with the university students who keep arriving in droves, eager to eat.

"Are you going to talk," Jongin finally manages. "We ate, we drank."

"Somewhere you'd rather be?" Moonkyu asks, and Jongin wonders if he'll still be buzzing by the time he and Taemin get back to the safe house.

He scowls. "No. But I'm not here for a reunion, I'm here to do a job."

"Ah, Jongin. It's always business with you. Okay." Moonkyu pulls out his phone and manages to swipe it open with his pinky. He leaves greasy smears across the screen. "Jongdae got in touch with me about a month ago, asking me if I'd ever heard of anything like this while I was freelancing."

"The phone calls."

"Yeah," Moonkyu says. "I wasn't sure how much they'd told you. You never got a call, did you?"

"I had no idea I was out until I saw my picture on the news."

Moonkyu bursts out laughing. "Beautiful," he says. Jongin doesn't think it's all that funny. He remembers the cold dread, the way his entire world collapsed around him in that very moment. But Moonkyu isn't laughing to be spiteful, and Jongin knows that.

"They showed me their theories last night. The other spies."

"There's a pattern," Moonkyu confirms. "You were the first. There have been seven since." He points back at his phone screen. "Number eight's going down this month."

Jongin blinks. "What? But you—if you know, then why can't you stop it? Who's—"

"Okay, I don't _know_ —I've just got a pretty good idea. If I knew anything else, don't you think I would do everything in my power to stop? This is bigger than just somebody outing spies, Jongin. Somebody's got a purpose. There's a reason they're doing what they're doing."

"Even for me? What about me?"

"You were a test. To see that it worked."

Jongin feels crushed by Moonkyu's admission. To lose his livelihood, his family, his friends in the way that he did… to be a guinea pig to some faceless black op organization… he feels newly powerless, newly hopeless. Everything ripped away from him, just because a voice on the other end of the phone made it happen.

Maybe it's just the alcohol. Maybe he just hadn't ever really dealt with the grief, but Jongin feels himself close to tears for a moment before he catches it and bites the inside of his cheek, hard.

"How do you know this?" he asks instead. Businesslike. It's easier this way, than to sit here and think about everything he's been told.

"I'm working for somebody else now."

Jongin lets this sit between them for a moment. "Who?" he asks, when Moonkyu isn't forthcoming with any more information.

"I can't say."

"Christ, Moonkyu, then how do you know—"

"It's okay, Jongin. We've been following this for a while. We're trying to make it stop."

"Again, how do you _know_ —"

"You know the kind of funding I have now?" Moonkyu asks. "We're not talking government paychecks. We're talking real money, Jongin, and no restrictions. I have access to the things I need to find out who's doing this to the intelligence community. Trust me. We are on the same side."

Jongin feels woozy now. His headache's pounding its way back into his skull, and he's tired, and he's pretty sure he still doesn't have enough for Jongdae and Baekhyun to go on. "What's next?" he asks. "I'm jet lagged as hell, Moonkyu, I'd like to go to bed. Is that all?"

"We haven't looked at the Moreno job."

"The—that thug? What about him?"

"Nobody considered that angle. Whoever got you burned—maybe they were trying to use you as a distraction. Maybe they didn't want him dead at all." Moonkyu holds out the bottle of soju, green and glinting. There's about a shot and a half sloshing around at the bottom. Jongin shakes his head.

"That was four years ago. Who's going to have information on that?"

"You remember why he was up for disposal?" So casual, the way he talks about assassination like that. Jongin used to be this comfortable. Now he's just vaguely nauseated.

"No. Wait." It's coming back to him. The kidnapping of a diplomat's daughter, in broad daylight. "The girl."

"She was killed two weeks later. Hit and run driver."

"Jesus. I didn't hear—"

"Of course you didn't. You were the news story over the world. Nobody cares about a death that appears to be accidental, even if it is kind of sad that a kid died. It happens all the time."

Jongin sways a little on his stool and puts his hand out to steady himself. "You said appears."

"I have my doubts. It's convenient timing." He lifts a shoulder and drops the punchline: "The diplomat stepped down after that. Which might've been what they wanted all along."

Jongin's entire body goes cold. He's got that feeling in his gut again, the paranoia, the creeping feeling that's telling him that there's something big looming in the distance, coming for them all.

☠☠☠

Moonkyu sends him away shortly after that. He tells Jongin to stay in the city, that he should be nearby in case Moonkyu needs to use him.

"How will you find me?"

"I can send word through Baekhyun. I'll find you," Moonkyu promises. He pays the tab and they leave separately.

Taemin and Jongdae have been waiting in the car for the better part of three hours. Jongin's proud that nobody's dead, although he'd put his money on having to dispose of Jongdae's body before Taemin's. He pours himself into the backseat over Taemin's lap and groans loudly. He's already starting to sober up and it fucking. Hurts.

"Well, I guess you're not hungry. Jesus, you smell like a bar," Taemin says, pulling him up by the lapels of his jacket to prop him against the car door.

"What did he give you?" Jongdae asks.

"The Colombia job. Moreno. There was a politician's kid—killed. The guy stepped down. Moonkyu thinks I was a diversion."

"Is that it?"

Taemin chimes in. "You need to be looking for the bank account funding these ops. Somebody's got deep pockets."

"How are we supposed to do that?" Jongdae demands. "We don't even know who's connected. We know who's being _used_ —but as far as I know, nobody's recruited you for any nefarious goings-on, have they, Jongin?"

"Moonkyu says somebody else is going to get burned soon."

"Who? How does he know?"

"He doesn't know who. Just says there's a pattern."

Jongdae groans and leans forward onto the steering wheel. "So, he gave you nothing. This was a waste."

"No—the Colombia angle. It's—he said to give him a few more days."

"A few more days?"

"I know you wanted to get rid of us—"

"Jesus," Jongdae says. "That's not it. It's not _safe_ for you to be here—"

"Just as safe as anywhere else. If these people are as well-connected—"

"A week. Just until we hear from Moonkyu again. Then you're out of here. Got it?" Jongdae asks, frowning into the backseat like a worried parent. Jongin throws him a thumbs up and leans into Taemin, his head still swimming and fuzzy.

Taemin slings an arm around him and leans in, voice low. "Good job," he says, and Jongin's heart sings.

 

Jongin dozes after that—but it can't be for longer than a few minutes, because the car grinds to a halt and there's no _way_ they're back at the safe house already. Jongin opens his eyes. Neon.

"Wha—"

"Five minutes," Jongdae says. "Say hi, then say goodbye. You can't tell him why you're here, and you can't tell him where you are."

Jongin scrambles to get out of the car, tumbling out of the car and onto the sidewalk in a heap. They're here—Chanyeol's, he's being allowed to say… whatever he can manage to fit into five minutes.

It's not enough.

"Ten."

Jongdae sighs. "Ten. I'm looking at my watch."

Jongin feels—not quite the same as he'd felt the day he'd been released from prison, but lighter, maybe. Relieved, at least, that he's being allowed to see for himself. He looks up at the bedroom window and it's still dark, but he can almost imagine the reflection of a sign across the pane, and thinks perhaps he _did_ imagine everything.

"You alright?" Taemin asks, falling in step with him.

"You don't have to come," Jongin says, even as he slips an arm around Taemin's shoulders. The action serves a dual purpose: he's grateful for Taemin's company, but he's also bone-tired and buzzed, and Taemin's the only thing helping him stay on his feet right now.

The kitchen door is open. The lights are on, but the stainless steel counters are wiped down and disinfected for the evening. It's deserted. Employees probably went home hours ago, judging by the tomblike stillness of the restaurant. Jongin feels uneasy. Taemin sounds much the same. His hand goes to the waistband of his jeans, to where the Norinco's still hiding.

"You sure he's here?"

"He's probably taking out the trash—he locks up before he leaves," Jongin explains, pushing open the door from the kitchen to the bar. He freezes at a familiar click, and finds himself going cross-eyed as the barrel of a pistol is thrust into his face. The next second it's gone as Taemin tackles the assailant and brings him down hard against the dining room floor. Jongin is momentarily dazed—and then taken aback, as he finally gets a good look at the situation and realizes who it is.

"Taemin, wait—Chanyeol?"

☠☠☠


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for blood/descriptions of violence and wounds.

☠☠☠

"Jesus Christ," Chanyeol breathes, still flat on his back on the floor, crushed under Taemin's weight. The restaurant's air is heavy with silence, and even outside, the sounds of the clubgoers, muted by the window, the sound of the heating clicking on overhead. "Jongin. What are you doing here? You're not supposed to be here. You're—in New York. You left Korea."

Jongin kicks Chanyeol's pistol out of arm's reach (just in case—not that he'd ever believe Chanyeol would _actually_ shoot him on purpose). It skitters across the floor, metallic, gritty, barrel pinging with each bounce. "Taemin," Jongin says. "It's okay. This is—"

"—Chanyeol," Taemin finishes, holding out a hand to help Chanyeol to his feet. The hard expression on his face is gone, replaced by a grin that is far too cheerful to belong to someone who'd just had a gun shoved in his face a minute before. But Taemin's always been exceptionally unpredictable, even at the best of times. "Nice to meet you," he says, aggression evaporated. Just like that. "I've heard a lot about you."

Chanyeol's attention settles on Taemin's face. He freezes, unsure—but suspicious.

Jongin confirms it for him. "Chanyeol, this is Taemin. Taemin, Chanyeol. Sorry about the—uh. Tackling."

"Jongdae wasn't kidding, was he?" Chanyeol says, thrusting his palm out, friendly, although there's an edge to his voice, and his fingers are trembling ever so slightly. "I can see the resemblance."

Taemin wrinkles his nose. It's a common refrain for both of them, but it doesn't make it any more amusing. "I'm the handsome one," he says, gracious enough to sidestep the argument when he knows the win is pointless. "Heard a lot of good things about you."

"Wish I could say the same," Chanyeol admits. "Rumors, mostly."

"They're all true," Taemin shoots back. "Downplayed my genius, if anything."

Jongin rolls his eyes, but it's enough to startle a weak laugh out of Chanyeol.

"Chanyeol," Jongin says, lifting the gun into his hand, testing its weight. Fully loaded. Old. Probably belonged to Chanyeol's father. "What's going on? Why do you have this?"

"There's been a series of break-ins in the neighborhood. I wanted to be prepared. You know what the police are like in this city, especially since we're not in Gangnam. No money, no incentive to rush over when they get a call. I'd be robbed and bleeding out on the floor before they even put the patrol car in drive." Not quite a lie, but not entirely the truth, either. Chanyeol's a miserable liar and can't look anyone in the eye when he's fibbing. Jongin knows this and he's watching carefully as Chanyeol's eyes make a controlled scan of the darkened restaurant; silhouettes of upturned chairs protruding in the dark; the fuzzy glow of the neon light underneath the top shelf liquor, illuminating the bottles throwing shadows down the bar.

"The police are useless down here," Taemin agrees. "Better to take things into your own hands."

"What are you doing here?" Chanyeol asks. "Not—not that I'm unhappy to see you, but—last I heard you were somewhere in America. Living out a fabulous retirement. Or dying by the side of the road somewhere, I guess. They don't tell me too much."

"Not much _to_ tell," Jongin admits. "I haven't been up to much. Just, you know. Living."

"Ah," Chanyeol says, nodding. "Living. Yes. Well. Me too." He starts pulling a few of the stools down off the bar, flipping them over and setting them feet down. "How long are you home? Are you going to go see your mom? Your sister came in the other day—with Yura—does she know you're back?"

"No," Jongin says quickly. "You can't—don't—my family—they don't know I'm home."

Chanyeol stares, bewildered. "Jesus, Jongin, what are you into this time?"

Abruptly, Taemin turns. Goes to the window. Jongin's gaze follows him, recognizing that feral dog look in his eyes. Taemin cocks his head to one side and holds still, listening. 

"Taemin?"

"Thought I heard something." He smiles, although his expression still looks serious. "Probably Jongdae, but I'll go take a quick walk around the building anyway. Just to check."

"Don't—Taemin, no," Jongin says. "Chanyeol said there have been break-ins, don't go looking for trouble."

Taemin lifts his shirt to flash the Norinco, still tucked in the waistband from earlier in the evening. "Hey. Don't worry. I'll be back. It's probably nothing." He disappears back through the kitchen before Jongin can protest any further. Chanyeol lowers himself onto a barstool, fingertip working anxiously against the lacquer, eyes trained on the kitchen door as if he's waiting for Taemin to come back before he can relax. This isn't like him—Chanyeol's never been this frightened before, not of some neighborhood punks who are probably just looking for the cash in the register.

"Chanyeol," Jongin says. Chanyeol jumps. Looks up at Jongin, eyes wide. "Chanyeol, Taemin can handle himself. It's fine," Jongin assures him. "He's—he's well-trained."

Chanyeol laughs. "I don't even know what that means. Do I want to know?" 

"Probably not," Jongin agrees. Chanyeol looks at Jongin, a sad little smile curling on his lips.

"I really don't know anything about what you do. Where you've been. Who—what—Taemin is. I mean, I followed the newspapers too, but the things they wrote about you—and Baekhyun _said_ a lot of it was a lie, but." He looks at the pistol in front of him on the bar. Nudges it away from him with his index finger. "I wasn't expecting to see you again."

"Well. Here I am," Jongin says, sliding onto the barstool next to Chanyeol. "Talk to me. What's been going on?"

Chanyeol's broad shoulders stiffen. Caught. "Not much," he says, failing to sound casual. "Yura got married. Back in March."

Jongin goes with it anyway. "I heard. Jongdae told me. I feel like congratulations are in order, but I'd also love to know how that happened."

"You know how it is. She hung around a lot after work, ended up spending a lot of time talking to Kyungsoo. She liked him, despite him being…" Chanyeol makes a vague gesture with his hands. "The way that he is."

Jongin laughs. "He'd kill you if he heard you say that."

"I know. She, uh—she wanted to invite you. I couldn't get an address out of Jongdae or Baekhyun, and I hadn't heard from you, so… I just told her you were out of the country and couldn't make it."

"Thanks," Jongin says, voice low. "I'm sorry. I—meant to let you know where I was. I just didn't know how to get back in touch, after all that time." He feels a pang, realizing he's never going to have it all. He can have his friends and live in danger, or he can keep everyone safe and be Alex Kim half a world away, pretending that he existed before 2023. Either way, everyone's a ghost. Everyone but Taemin, anyway.

Chanyeol lowers his head. "She's pregnant."

"You don't sound excited. Is she okay?"

"I'm—that's not it," Chanyeol says. "She's fine." He holds up a finger and disappears behind the bar for a moment to retrieve a stack of photographs. Jongin immediately recognizes the telephoto lens—probably taken from the safety of a rooftop across the street, or a window, maybe. Chanyeol, opening the bar in the morning. Taking out the trash. Kissing Yura on the cheek and helping her into her car. Kyungsoo and Yura, outside on the sidewalk, deep in conversation. Completely unaware they're being watched. 

"Where did these come from?" Jongin asks, aghast. "Chanyeol—what's—why is somebody having you watched?"

Chanyeol sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Dad took on a lot of debt in order to get this restaurant up and running. I guess—back when he got sick, the roof needed repairing and the bank wouldn't give him a loan. So he went and found the money someplace else."

Dread settles in Jongin's stomach heavy, like a stone. He knows what Chanyeol's going to tell him, but he asks anyway. "Chanyeol, are you—did he go see a loan shark?"

"I don't know who it is, exactly," Chanyeol admits. "Someone's shaking me down. He wants… a lot of money. Billions of won. Which, as you can see, I do not have." He gestures to the interior of the restaurant. It's comfortably shabby—lived in, a real neighborhood establishment, the kind that attracts regular customers instead of the younger patrons that hop clubs from week to week, their tastes changing with the wind, depending on which celebrity's been spotted out and about recently.

Jongin knows it's been a struggle for Chanyeol to just keep his dad's place afloat and break even, forget about making any sort of profit. And Chanyeol doesn't often let on how hard he works—he's always got that smile pasted on his face, even at the end of a sixteen hour shift when he's got to get up early to meet the produce guy at five thirty. The only true reprieve came from Kyungsoo, who worked alongside him as a partner and helped keep things running smoothly when Chanyeol needed a break. 

Chanyeol purses his lips, like he's wrestling with the decision whether or not to speak. Finally: "I fired Kyungsoo."

"You—what? Why?"

"I fired Kyungsoo." Chanyeol speaks through his fingers, now, face buried in his huge palms to hide his shame. "I thought if I fired him, got him away from the restaurant… maybe the pictures would stop."

"And?" Jongin thumbs through the stack of papers. Lands on one of Kyungsoo and Yura, somewhere out in the arts district. Out on a date, by the looks of things, although she's obviously pregnant—so it's recent. "Shit. Chanyeol. Does he know what's going on?"

"No. God—Jongin, this is my problem to deal with, not his. He just needs to keep my sister safe."

Jongin shakes his head. Sometimes Chanyeol's noble to the point of stupidity—and now is one of those times. "So you fired your most loyal employee—and he didn't ask you why? He's not mad? Yura's not mad?"

Chanyeol sighs and lets his hands drop. "She's mad. He's mad."

"Then…"

"I didn't want them to feel like they needed to put money towards Dad's debt. Not with the baby on the way, Jongin—it'd clean them out. It's better if it's just me." Chanyeol looks so damn tired, like he's aged fifteen years since the last time Jongin saw him. He's been carrying this around for a while. It's going to break him if it doesn't stop soon.

Jongin leans forward onto the bar. "Have you ever dealt with a loan shark before, Chanyeol? They don't—they don't stop. With the interest rate he's probably charging you—you'll never get out from under this. It'll crush you. Unless—"

"Unless?"

Before Jongin can open his mouth to reply, there's a terrible firecracker noise ripping through the night outside, almost like a car backfiring. A gunshot. Just one, and very close. Chanyeol drops to his knees off the stool in one practiced move, trying to get below window level. He's been alone at this restaurant during close, ducking for cover one too many times. But there hasn't been a lot of gun crime in the city since Taemin's organization was shut down, so gunshots are a relatively uncommon occurrence. The police are probably right around the corner.

"Shit, that was close," Chanyeol says from the floor. And suddenly Jongin realizes—

"Taemin." He hasn't come back from his perimeter check yet.

Jongin nearly wrenches the door off its hinges in his haste to get through the kitchen and out the back door. He doesn't stop to think, doesn't remember he should've taken Chanyeol's pistol with him until it's too late to turn around. And the alley behind Chanyeol's restaurant is quiet. No sign of violence, no thugs running away—just the worried chatter of party girls across the street, the muted sound of police sirens in the distance.

And then he sees him.

Taemin's staggering around the back corner of the building, one hand braced and skimming along the bricks to keep him upright. He's hugging himself with the other arm, the way you'd hug yourself when it's below freezing outside. He looks up from the puddles on the asphalt when Jongin bursts through the door, and smiles, the way he always does when he sees Jongin, although this time his eyes are crimped with pain at the corners. Jongin notices it, finally: the blood oozing through Taemin's fingers where he's clasping at his armpit.

"He's gone," Taemin says. "I didn't see—his face. He came from behind." He staggers, tumbles into Jongin's outstretched arms, bleeding all over the place. He smells coppery and he's warm and sticky, and Jongin doesn't know why his first response is to bury his face in Taemin's hair and kiss his scalp, but he does it anyway, words ripping from his mouth that he's not even aware of: "You're okay, it's okay, you're okay," like a mantra. "I've got you."

Taemin's still conscious, but he's in far too much pain to concentrate on staying aware and staying upright at the same time. He elects for the awareness and sags into Jongin for support. "A flesh wound," he quips, face buried in the curve of Jongin's neck. "Mind getting me a beer? I could really use one right now."

" _Jesus._ " Jongdae's voice comes from behind them. "I heard shots fired, and—what _happened_? Jongin?"

"Hyung, help me get him inside," Jongin says. "He was doing a perimeter check—somebody shot him."

"I don't understand— _who_ —?"

"It's a long story," Jongin says, frantic. "Come on."

Jongdae comes around under Taemin's other arm and hoists him up. Taemin flinches, his face contorting as a fresh stab of pain shudders through his body. Jongin feels the side of his shirt grow warm and wet.

"Careful," Taemin warns through gritted teeth, turning his face into Jongin's temple. Jongin swears he hears a whimper, but before he can react, Taemin's laughing at something, the way Jongdae kicks the back door to the kitchen wide open, maybe, Jongin can't really tell. Everything's happening so fast, he's only getting snatches of what's going on. Fleeting impressions, dark and grimy, neon-streaked, cold. Everything smells like rain.

Taemin trips on Jongdae's untied shoelaces and over the threshold. Jongin grabs him by the hips and hauls him up before he goes sprawling on the floor in a heap. Chanyeol's standing there, hand over his mouth, aghast.

"Taemin, I—Jongin—Hyung—what do we do?" He reaches for the phone on the wall. Jongin waves him off.

"Bring me some towels," he says when his brain stops stuttering and slows down enough for him to think. "Vodka. And duct tape."

Taemin nuzzles Jongin's face and plants a shaky kiss on his jaw. Shy, more of a peck than anything else. Reassurance, as if Jongin's the one bleeding out, not Taemin. His breathing's labored, and his fingertips are cold. "Hey," he murmurs. "I'm fine. Relax."

"You're not fine. Shut up," Jongin says. He maneuvers Taemin into a seated position against the cooler, heedless of the bloody footprints he's tracking everywhere in Chanyeol's nice clean kitchen. The health inspectors would have a field day with this if they knew.

Jongdae comes over with a knife from the magnetic rack on the wall, solemnly hands it to Jongin. "Should I call Baekhyun?"

Jongin ignores him in favor of cutting open Taemin's shirt. The knife makes quick work of it. Jongin sees the deep wound just a few inches to the right of his armpit, open, fresh with blood. Taemin's lucky the shooter had lousy aim—a few inches this way, a few inches up, and it would have hit him straight in the heart. He slips his hand around Taemin's ribs, his shoulder, hoping to feel a matching hole on the other side of him. Nothing. 

He looks up. "Taemin."

"I know," Taemin rasps, and his eyes look a little wild with panic for a second. Jongin reaches out to take Taemin's hand. Taemin deflects the gesture and thrusts a peace sign into Jongin's palm, grinning. "Scissors cuts paper," he says, too scared to let his guard down in front of Jongdae or Chanyeol. 

Jongin slaps his hand away.

Chanyeol comes back with a bottle of top shelf vodka and an armful of dish towels, fresh and clean from the laundry service. Still folded—must've been delivered just this morning. Jongin douses one with the vodka. Taemin rescues the bottle from him and takes a long swig, wipes his mouth off with the back of his hand.

"Thanks, Chanyeol. You're a true friend in my time of need," he says, and promptly yelps loudly in pain as Jongin cleans the wound with the vodka-soaked rag. Chanyeol's anxious face hovers overhead. He looks close to tears, seeing how much pain Taemin's in. He's always been a big softie.

"Jongin—he can't stay here," Jongdae says, his voice wound tight with urgency. "You hear the sirens—they're coming. They're going to find you. They're going to find _him_. We've got to move him."

Jongin presses a fresh dish towel over Taemin's shoulder to staunch the blood flow. "Jongdae, he's—it's still in there. We—I need help, we don't have the right equipment, I don't—what are we going to do?" He feels trapped, the kitchen closing in on him, seconds ticking away and with them, Taemin's life. "He's going to die from acute lead poisoning before he even has a chance to bleed to death if we don't get the bullet out, and I need—I don't think I can—" He falters. Takes a deep, quivering breath. Think. _If he were in the field, what would he—but it's been years—isn't it supposed to be like riding a bicycle? Why can't he just—_

Taemin wraps his hand around Jongin's wrist briefly and squeezes it, holding Jongin's hand in place over his heart for a moment. Grounds him, brings him back into the present, stops him from spiraling. Taemin's calm—so Jongin needs to be calm, too. There's a bloody outline of Taemin's handprint winding around Jongin's wrist when he lets his hand drop away.

"I'll get the car," Jongdae says, going to the window to peer out onto the street. He seems satisfied at what he sees, but still wary—always, always vigilant. "Get him up. We need to go before we're blocked in. This place'll be crawling with cops any minute now. I'll—call Baekhyun—maybe he's got an idea of what we can do."

Taemin notices the stricken look on Jongin's face as he watches Jongdae leave, back door swinging gently in his wake. "Don't be such a baby," Taemin says through his teeth, and then winces, clutching at himself. Jongin presses the dish rag harder in reply.

Chanyeol stands at the door watching for Jongdae's headlights, stealing a nervous glance every now and then over his shoulder as Jongin strokes Taemin's face with his free hand and keeps him talking. In his peripheral vision, he catches Chanyeol staring, only to quickly avert his eyes, embarrassed, like he's intruding on a private moment. 

"Who shot you, though?" Jongin insists, trying to pin Taemin with his gaze. "Was it a street kid? Or—Chanyeol's having some trouble with a loan shark, Taemin, did he think you were Chanyeol? Did he _say _anything, or did he just—shoot you?"__

__Taemin's eyes slide out of focus for a second as he struggles to search his recollection, then his face splits into a blissed-out grin. "Can't remember. It's fine—they missed the important parts."_ _

__"You're the important parts," Jongin reminds him. "It's not fine. Shut up."_ _

__"You said I should keep talking to you. Which is it?"_ _

__"Talk to Chanyeol instead."_ _

__Chanyeol's attention volleys between them, gaze snapping back and forth, bewildered. Jongin smooths back the hair from Taemin's forehead. Taemin makes a pleased noise in the back of his throat and leans back against the heavy metal door of the cooler._ _

__"You know what this reminds me of?"_ _

__"I told you to shut up," Jongin says, thumbing at his cheek. "Stop wasting energy."_ _

__Taemin laughs silently, shoulders shaking. "I forgot how much fun we used to have."_ _

__Chanyeol raises his eyebrows, as if something's just clicked. The white-hot slice of Jongdae's high beams through the window stops him from asking the question that's clearly burning inside of him. "He's here," he says, relieved._ _

__Gently, Jongin coaxes Taemin to his feet, hand still clamped over the bullet wound. The towel underneath his fingers has gone dark with blood. Taemin stumbles, his eyes rolling back, head lolling to one side. His face has gone white as a sheet, the ruddy pink laughter draining from his cheeks. Jongin nearly loses it right there, watching Taemin flicker out for a moment before he gets his bearings and returns, a grim smile plastered on his face._ _

__Jongdae pokes his head in. "Jongin. Come on. Get him in the car."_ _

__

__Chanyeol stays behind—to clean up the blood, or as much as he can, before the police come sniffing around. Jongdae's idea—better than leaving what looks like a crime scene strewn all over the kitchen. He looks shaken, peering out of the back door at the car as Jongdae puts it into reverse and guns out of the alleyway fast enough that pedestrians crash into each other, scattering, narrowly avoiding the trajectory of Jongdae's car._ _

__"Are we there yet?" Taemin jokes, his voice croaking and feeble. He's sitting in between Jongin and the door, head supported by Jongin's shoulder._ _

__"Don't even know where _there_ is," Jongdae says. "Baekhyun's not picking up. I don't—"_ _

__"He needs to go to a doctor," Jongin says. "An emergency room. Or—someone—you've got to know a doctor. Someone from the army? Or the NIS?"_ _

__"Jongin, you don't get it, we haven't been authorized to allow you in the country, you _cannot_ —"_ _

__"—a late night pharmacy and some fucking tweezers, I'll do it myself—"_ _

__"—I'm driving to Baekhyun's, Soojung can do this—"_ _

__Jongin feels hysteria welling up inside of him and has to swallow hard against it to keep his voice even. "It'll take forty-five minutes to get there, hyung, we don't—we don't have that kind of time. Can't you do it?"_ _

__Taemin's eyes keep scrunching shut and then opening again, unfocused. He peers up through his fringe at Jongin, a small smile on his face. He's fading quickly. "Hi," he says._ _

__"Hi," Jongin whispers, voice scratchy. "You're going to be okay. You're—we'll figure it out, okay, just stay awake. Keep talking to me."_ _

__Taemin nods even as he closes his eyes. His hands come up to rest on Jongin's again, pushing into the spaces between Jongin's fingers. Jongin looks down and it hits him as he sees Taemin's fingers link around his wrist—_ _

__"I know where we can go," Jongin says, and until the words have left his mouth, he hasn't given a single thought back to the clinic where Taemin had taken him to patch up his arm. The doctor Taemin used to work for, off the books. Jongin barely remembers where it is, and Taemin keeps trailing off and losing his train of thought, but they manage. A minor miracle._ _

__But the lights are off._ _

__It takes the two of them banging on the door, pleading at the top of their lungs, loud enough to wake the entire neighborhood, before Dr Kim appears at the door like a priest roused from sleep in the middle of the night. The way he peers out owlishly, a pair of wire-rim frames perched on his nose, Jongin half-expects him to be holding a lantern instead of a smartphone as a makeshift flashlight, screen glowing blue. He's in a wrinkled crew neck and a pair of flannel pants, drawstring-tight. There are weary, dark circles under his eyes, but he looks much the same as Jongin remembered._ _

__"Who is it?" he asks nervously, peering past Jongdae to where Jongin's acting as a crutch for Taemin's slumped form. It's a struggle to keep him on his feet—he's heavy, especially when he's not contributing to the effort at all._ _

__"Taemin was shot," Jongin says, and shock registers on Dr Kim's face where confusion had been before. He doesn't recognize Jongin from their brief encounter, and Jongin hadn't really expected him to. It was half an hour, four years ago. There have been hundreds of faces since his visit, probably thousands. It's two in the morning, and Jongin's just some guy off the street._ _

__But Taemin—Taemin he knows. Had a working relationship with. Taemin he'll help._ _

__"Come in," he says, opening the door to usher them inside. He checks down the darkened street to make sure they weren't followed, then slides the chain shut behind them._ _

☠☠☠

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guys! thank you so much for all the comments and kudos, you're the best! i'm trying to update as regularly as i can, but full-time employment is kicking my ass, so updates will not be as frequent as i'd like. so sorry! thanks for your understanding ❤


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for blood / medical procedures / more blood.

☠☠☠

Dr Kim leads them down the hallway, through a heavy door and into the main clinic. The hallways are eerie and dark, cast in muted blues and greens. The examination room smells like rubbing alcohol and cleaning solution. It stings Jongin's nose.

The fluorescent lights hum to life under Dr Kim's hand, and Jongin sees him properly for the first time. He's as businesslike as Jongin remembers as he snaps on a pair of latex gloves and nods for Jongdae and Jongin to get Taemin up on the table. He's awfully trusting, Dr Kim, the way he accepts Taemin's sudden appearance in the middle of the night, bleeding from a chest wound, as though it's something that happens every day. 

He'd been dozing on Jongin's shoulder, but Taemin starts to stir as they're easing him up on the table.

"Doc," he murmurs, grinning, his eyelids fluttering crazily. "Long time no see. You look good."

Dr Kim doesn't react to Taemin's routine, which has Jongin standing aside, silently impressed. He gets to work, busily cutting away the tatters of Taemin's shirt with a pair of scissors. "What have you gotten yourself into this time, Taemin?"

Taemin's head lolls back, his eyes half-closed, a shock-stoned smile on his face. He looks almost playful. "So we're skipping the foreplay?"

"He got shot," Jongin says, cutting in over Taemin's wisecracking. His voice doesn't shake at all. "Down in Itaewon. Close range. No exit."

Dr Kim frowns. "Police involved? Because I can't just—if you're in something, I can't risk this whole place getting shut down."

"We got away clean," Jongdae assures him. "A loan shark collection gone bad, nothing on our end." Another beat, and Jongdae's patting at his trousers for his wallet. "I'm with the NIS, I'm not going to say anything about being here if you can do me the same favor."

Dr Kim seems satisfied. He snaps his fingers. "Scalpel." And just like that, Jongin's diving into the cabinet drawers, looking for a sterile pack. 

Jongdae's phone rings. It breaks the silence with an ear-splitting rock song, something that had been popular on the radio a couple seasons ago. Taemin laughs weakly, and Dr Kim shoots daggers at Jongdae for the disruption.

"It's Baekhyun," Jongdae says. "I left him like, six voicemails, he's probably freaking out. Let me—"

"Go," Jongin says, hand anchored to Taemin's good shoulder, holding him down against the bed. "I'll stay here." As if anything short of a nuclear threat could drag him away. And even then, maybe not.

Jongdae steps out into the hallway. Jongin can hear the faint thread of conversation as Jongdae gets Baekhyun up to speed on the past few hours. His voice is impressively calm. Even though Jongin can't make out the words, he can hear it in Jongdae's tone—incredibly even, matter-of-fact. Jongdae's in work mode right now.

"I need anesthetic," Dr Kim says, breaking into Jongin's thoughts. Jongin moves to search the cabinets again, but Taemin grabs at his elbow to stop him from leaving. Shakes his head.

"Don't need it, just do it."

"Taemin," Dr Kim says. "This is going to be incredibly painful, I really can't recommend bypassing any sort of basic precautions due to your misguided sense of—"

"Are you going to keep talking? I said I'm fine." Taemin grits his teeth. Closes his eyes. "Just hurry up."

Dr Kim meets Jongin's eyes, his mouth a grim line. "I know he thinks he looks cool when he does this, but if I can keep him from screaming and waking the whole neighborhood, then maybe we can all get out of this night alive."

Jongin looks down at Taemin's face. He looks fucking terrible, ashen and grey under the lights. He's got dried blood on his forehead and cheeks from where Jongin's been stroking his hair with his dirty hands. Jongin knows he wants to protect him, and feels guilty that he didn't—but logically, Taemin's been through this before, and under worse conditions. There are no sterile instruments in the middle of the jungle, no anesthesia, no doctors. This whole night, Taemin hasn't complained once. 

Jongin, on the other hand, feels like his ribs are caving in. "He can handle it," he says, putting an end to the argument. "Hurry. Please."

Even with his eyes closed, Taemin's hand finds Jongin's easily, like two magnets coming together. He squeezes. The minute the blade touches his skin he opens his eyes again, wide and spooked, and he doesn't look away from Jongin's face, doesn't even blink. He flexes each finger against Jongin's grip in turn, seething through his gritted smile. He doesn't cry out, though, not even when Dr Kim swipes the scalpel underneath the wound and pushes hard with the index finger of his other hand. Dr Kim's performing the extraction in his pyjamas, now splattered dark with blood. Taemin's blood. Jongin feels queasy and turns away to look at Taemin's face, focusing on his breathing.

"Bullet fragmented. That's why there's no exit wound," Dr Kim says after a moment, plucking something out of Taemin's chest. He drops it on the tray next to the bed and it clinks brightly. "You're lucky it hit this low."

Taemin's pained smile morphs into a scowl when Dr Kim's tweezers return. "Lucky," he repeats, like he's saying a dirty word. "No offense, Doc, but I don't think you know what that word actually means."

"You're alive," Dr Kim says, and Jongin sees him poke at Taemin a little harder than necessary, just to prove his point. Taemin winces. "This isn't the first time I've had to patch you up, Taemin. They keep shooting at you, and you just keep on living. That's luck."

Taemin sniffs. "That's skill."

"Yes, well," Dr Kim says, "so's this." He pulls out another fragment, dark, bloody, and holds it up to the light. Twists it, so Jongin can get a good look at it. Jongin doesn't let his gaze linger on it for too long. It's amazing that something so small can be so lethal. "That's everything."

"Great," Taemin murmurs, his eyes closing again. "Stitch me up and let's get home. I'm beat. I could sleep forever."

"It's not that simple," Dr Kim says, directing the conversation at Jongin. "I've tried to disinfect it as best I can, but there's major tissue damage, and he really needs to get to a hospital to make sure—"

"No," Taemin cuts in. "They'll lose—their jobs. We'll all go to jail—for harboring a fugitive."

Every word sounds like it's being dragged out of him, like Taemin's reaching down deep inside of himself, summoning some impossible strength just to draw enough breath to speak. Usually, speech comes so easily to him, and Jongin's unnerved.

"It's got—to be you," Taemin says.

"I've stopped the bleeding, but he's going to need a transfusion," Dr Kim says to Jongin. "He's lost—I mean, look at him. Look at _you._ "

Jongin looks down at himself, then at the brown tatters of Taemin's shirt, now on the floor. "We're not supposed to be in the country," he says, his tongue heavy as lead. "There can't be a record of that blood."

"He needs it," Dr Kim insists. "He's lost too much."

"I'm fine," Taemin murmurs. "Just give me fluids." His lips are so pale they disappear, blending in with the rest of his complexion. The fine sheen of sweat on his forehead gives his skin a waxy appearance. He's not fine. Anyone with eyes could see he's not fine. Jongin's amazed he's even conscious, but then again, Taemin's always a constant surprise.

Jongin thumbs at the blood flakes on Taemin's cheek. "I'll do it," he says. "Just give him my blood."

"Do you match?" Dr Kim scrutinizes him, eyes narrow. "What's his blood type?"

Jongin searches his recollection, trying to think. _Has it come up?_

"B," Taemin says, his voice suddenly very small, very tired.

Jongin's heart falls. They're not a match. He can't help. He'd been so sure—he's been quietly living his life the past year forgetting that they can't share everything. That there are fundamental differences that separate them, and this is one of those differences. It's only been a year of this, of them, all things considered, after years of poor timing and prison. But one year and Jongin's forgotten that they used to live separate lives. Jongin had almost forgotten what it was like before. But he's reminded, now.

"I'm type O. Universal donor." Baekhyun's voice comes from the doorway. He'd arrived sometime during Taemin's stitches, and Jongdae had brought him back without Jongin ever hearing the back door open. He's still in his pyjamas, too, with a gigantic down puffer coat zipped up over his sweatpants."I can donate," he says, shrugging out of the coat to roll up his sleeves.

"Have you done this before?" Jongdae asks. "Directly, I mean."

Dr Kim shrugs, peeling the gloves off his hands as he goes to get a fresh pair. "Once or twice."

The clinic is oddly quiet while Dr Kim prepares the IV tubing into a makeshift apparatus. The clinic's not really set up for this type of procedure, that much is obvious, but it's their last hope. Jongdae's sitting in the corner staring off into space, rubbing his upper lip with his knuckles, eyebrows furrowed.

They set up a cot for Baekhyun to get comfortable and Jongin stands to the other side of Taemin, his fingers tracking the weak drumbeat in Taemin's wrist. Jongin watches Taemin flinch when Dr Kim slips the needle underneath his skin into the vein at the crook of his elbow. He lies there quietly, watching the blood inch up the tube from Baekhyun and into his arm, one fist opening, and then clenching again. It's enough for Jongin to know that he's really not doing well. He hasn't cracked a single joke since Baekhyun arrived, hasn't said a single word. 

A fresh wave of nausea crashes over Jongin when he dares to look down at Taemin's arm. He used to be so rigid, but the fight's gone out of him now. Everything's changed. Everything goes out the window when you actually give a shit about the person you're trying to save.

Jongdae notices, thank god. He puts his hand on Jongin's back. "Come on," he murmurs. "Let's go for a walk."

"No. I can't leave him," Jongin protests. Taemin opens his eyes and looks over with glacial deliberateness, his eyes foggy and unfocused.

"You look like you're going to puke," he whispers, a faint smile creeping onto his face. It's moments like this that are surreal to Jongin. If he were completely healthy, he'd be doubled-over, laughing at Jongin's sensitivity. 

"I'll take him to get some fresh air. We'll be back in five minutes."

"Take your time," Baekhyun assures them, lying back against his free arm, looking for all the world like he's lying out at the beach. "Taemin and I will be fine."

Despite his complaints, Jongdae drags Jongin outside by the arm. He gets Jongin in a chair in the dark waiting room and then sits next to him without talking, rubbing his back while Jongin drops his head in his hands and breathes through his nose. The nausea subsides, sort of.

"You okay?" he asks.

He is, a little, now that he's not watching the transfusion. "Yeah. Just—haven't eaten much, I guess," he lies, like that's all it is. Dinner with Moonkyu feels like it happened weeks and weeks ago, even though it's been only a few hours. And now that all the alcohol is out of his system, Jongin truly feels like garbage.

"He's going to be okay," Jongdae offers after a moment. "We got him here in time."

Jongin nods, and then heaves one loud, dry sob before he gets himself under control again. It's enough for Jongdae to sling an arm around his shoulders and pull him in close for a rough hug.

"Get it together," he chides gently, although his voice is warm. "Civilian life has made you soft. You're more upset than he is, and he's the one with a hole in his chest."

Jongin scowls. "I'm not upset. I'm just tired."

Jongdae laughs and releases him. "You're still such a kid sometimes, Jongin." His laughter rolls to a stop and his voice lowers. "We know he's important to you. You don't have to pretend to be brave on this one."

"Who's pretending?" Jongin asks, but he can't look Jongdae in the eye as he says it.

☠☠☠

Taemin finally stops fighting his exhaustion after the transfusion's over. He doesn't resist when Dr Kim switches him over to a saline IV, but Dr Kim seems satisfied enough with his condition and doesn't insist that he stay awake. He wraps Baekhyun's elbow and brings him some banana milk to bring his blood sugar back up, and then disappears for a while.

Baekhyun sits up on the cot, dunking stale cookies into his banana milk and sucking it off before he pops them into his mouth. 

"You're disgusting," Jongdae tells him. He tries to steal one, but Baekhyun slaps him away.

"Don't want me to faint on the drive home, do you?" he asks, his eyes sparkling. He's fine. He bounces back from everything.

When Dr Kim comes back in, he's fully-dressed, mugs of cheap gasoline coffee on a tray. He's got a shirt and a zip-up sweatshirt hanging from one arm.

"They're probably a little small for him, but he can't go outside like this. Keep him warm," he says, handing over the clothes to Jongdae. Then, to Jongin: "It's going to be day light soon." He forces Jongin to take a coffee.

Jongin holds the mug with the chipped rim in his hands, letting it warm the blood in his palms. He doesn't take a sip, but watches Taemin smile in his sleep.

"Sun's going to rise soon," Jongdae says. "We should get him out of here as soon as we can. We need the darkness, if we can help it."

"He'll be ready to go soon. I'll send you with some supplies to keep it clean."

Jongin looks up. Dr Kim's not talking to anyone else, just him, very slowly. Jongin's head feels fuzzy, like everything's just starting to come back into focus. The tips of his fingers are icy cold; his ears and nose, too, like he'd just come in from a night outside. So he'd been in shock, too.

"Thank you, Doctor," he mumbles.

"My name is Junmyeon," he says, "and drink. Taemin's going to be fine." He pauses, and a contemplative look crosses his face. "How's the wrist doing?"

So he _does_ remember. Jongin flushes and holds it in his lap. "Fine."

"Nasty break," Junmyeon says. Jongdae clears his throat.

"We should get going."

"Let's bring him to our place," Baekhyun says. "We've got the room."

"Are you sure?" Jongin asks. "Because the safe house—"

"You're not going to take care of him all by yourself in that drafty old building," Baekhyun insists. "Besides, Soojung will be worried sick. I told her I'd call with news, and I haven't."

It takes the four of them to hold Taemin upright—two to hold his body, two to dress him, gently. Baekhyun tugs his oversized coat on over Taemin's arms for extra warmth. Taemin blinks awake, half-aware, body slumped and lax. He doesn't seem to know where he is, but he mumbles _gun_ a few times, woozy. Jongin slides under his good arm to hold him steady.

"Keep an eye on him," Junmyeon warns. "I know what he's like, and he needs to stay in bed and take it easy. If he gets a fever, or it starts to look red or infected, you need to call me immediately."

Junmyeon gives Jongdae a backpack full of supplies: gauze, antibiotics, more saline IV bags, and then helps them get Taemin out into the backseat of Baekhyun's car. He stretches out across the length of it, head pillowed in Jongin's lap, body swallowed by the massive coat. Jongin holds perfectly still, trying not to let the bumps in the road jostle him too much.

 

Soojung's waiting in the doorframe for them when they finally pull into the driveway. The house behind her is dark, but the sky is just starting to go pink and hazy with the first hints of the sunrise. It's just Baekhyun and Jongin carrying Taemin up the walkway and the front steps; Jongdae had split off from the convoy, gone back to the restaurant to check on Chanyeol, and then back home, to catch an hour of sleep before reporting for work. Any deviation from the norm and there would be suspicion.

Baekhyun kisses her and murmurs something too quiet for Jongin to hear. She shakes her head at him and then looks over to Jongin and Taemin. The worry lines on her forehead deepen.

"Bring him inside," she says. They get him into the house and across the threshold and he wakes up enough to smile at her.

"Hello," he says. "Pretty."

Baekhyun snorts. "Hey," he says to Taemin's nodding head. "You've got your own."

The guest room has already been made up, the spare couch pulled out into a daybed. They set up a makeshift IV pole using a floor lamp and Soojung hangs up another saline bag for Taemin. The color's starting to return to his cheeks, or maybe it's just a trick of the light. 

With some difficulty, Jongin manages to maneuver Taemin's legs up onto the bed. He's unresponsive and boneless, deadweight, although Jongin suspects he might be faking just a little bit, especially when he groans quietly and stretches, whimpering quietly into the back of his knuckles. He's saying something—lips moving, stretching over soundless words.

Jongin leans closer to try and catch it. "What?" he says softly. "Taemin?"

Taemin sits bolt upright to lick a warm stripe up Jongin's cheek, then falls back against the pillows, chuckling to himself. Jongin's so startled at the sudden emergence of Taemin's old self that he bursts out laughing and has to catch himself before he punches Taemin's sternum, dangerously close to where he's stitched up.

"You dick," he says instead, utterly fond, pushing Taemin's hair back from his forehead. Taemin's eyebrows lift even as his eyes settle closed again. The painkiller Junmyeon had slipped him before they left the clinic has started to take hold. Jongin wipes at his cheek, and Taemin falls asleep with a smile on his face.

 

Exhaustion and the weight of the past twenty-four hours hit Jongin like a freight train the minute he comes out of the room and pauses to catch his breath. He feels for the wall, for something to keep him standing. Soojung's right there, too, stroking the ears of Jonghee's old rabbit between her fingers. She smiles when she sees Jongin.

"He's going to be fine," she says, voice low.

"I know," Jongin says. "He licked me."

Soojung laughs. "You, though. You look exhausted. You should go to bed." Her eyes flicker past him, beyond the door to the dark sliver of Taemin's silent room. "You _both_ need the rest."

"Not yet," Jongin says. "I really should bring you guys up to speed on Moonkyu, and I don't know yet if Chanyeol managed to get the police off his back. Don't worry, I'm okay." He's really not okay. The adrenaline's completely worn off and now he just wants to sink into a mattress and not crawl out for three days, but they're expecting him to be at the top of his game. They're expecting him to do the job he came here to do.

"That can wait," she says. "Jongin, you look like you're going to keel over."

Baekhyun emerges from a room down the hallway, holding his finger to his lips as he pulls the door closed. "She's still asleep," he whispers, looking proud. "She could sleep through an air raid. My girl." His eyes fall on Jongin. "Change out of those clothes," he says abruptly. "You're freaking me out."

Jongin looks down at himself and belatedly realizes that he's still covered in Taemin's blood, brown and long-since dried. The shirt's ruined. There's no way to take this to the cleaners without a lengthy explanation and a visit from the police. This much blood would spark an investigation.

So he tosses it in the fireplace.

 

He stands under the shower, turned as hot as it'll go, red water sloshing around his ankles as it all washes away, every wasted drop of Taemin's blood. He uses Jonghee's baby shampoo to clean his hair and then his whole body—some bubblegum scented thing that lathers into a bright, white foam. He can't be assed to find anything else to use. After the night he's had, he'll never care about anything as trivial as fucking shampoo ever again. He waits until everything runs clear, until his skin is zinging from the temperature, and then steps out onto the rug, shivering. 

He gets dressed slowly, in the clothes Soojung had left on the counter for him. They're Baekhyun's, and they're a little too tight, but they're clean, which is an improvement. His joints are creaking and sore after the long night in uncomfortable positions. He's not as young as he used to be, he realizes for the nth time.

By the time he emerges from the bathroom, his skin soft, hair dripping down the back of his neck, Baekhyun and Soojung have commandeered the entire kitchen table and spread out a novel's worth of pages across it. Soojung's got a red pen out and she's circling things, stuffing them into Baekhyun's hands. 

"Hold this," she instructs. "This one's weird, too."

"What's going on?" Jongin asks. Soojung looks up.

"Jongin, seriously. Go to sleep."

"I don't—"

"Jongdae filled us in. We're getting a start on Moonkyu's tip."

Jongin goes to sit. "Then let me—"

" _No,_ " Soojung says, hooking her foot around the chair's leg to keep Jongin from pulling it out. She looks back down the hallway and her eyes soften, the same look she gets in her eyes when she's talking about Jonghee. "After you've slept. Go on."

 

It's fully daylight when Jongin finally crawls into bed with Taemin. He's halfway through his IV and breathing steadily, his chest expanding softly with each inhale, which is comforting even though Junmyeon had reassured them that Taemin would be fine. Jongin slips his hand down the neck of Taemin's shirt to check the bandage, feeling for wetness with the back of his hand. It's still bleeding a little bit—probably irritated by Taemin's movements in his sleep, but it's tapering off. Jongin'll hold off on changing it and deal with it when he gets up in a few hours, instead of bothering Taemin while he's resting.

Taemin stirs anyway, just enough to crack an eye open and move instinctively over to Jongin's cold half of the bed. He flops across the pillows with a loud, huffy sigh.

"You smell like candy," he mutters. "Weird." He's asleep again almost as quickly, his fingers twisting into Jongin's shirt to keep him close.

Jongin bows his face into the part of Taemin's hair, inhales the smell of antiseptic and the coppery twang of blood and the musky smell of Taemin's sweat and is thankful for all of it.

☠☠☠


	7. Chapter 7

☠☠☠

Jongin means to sleep as long as his body will allow him, but that ends up being just short of two hours. He jerks awake out of a bad dream he's thankful that he can't quite remember, his chest heaving. Taemin, on the other hand, looks downright peaceful by comparison. He's still fast asleep, sprawled on his back with his limbs flung in every direction in an attempt to take over the whole bed. He's snoring softly. Nothing new there. Earlier, he'd been huddled on Jongin's side of the bed, his face pillowed on Jongin's chest, but the discomfort of his wound had proven too much for him to stay that way for too long.

Jongin sits up and scrubs his palm across his face. He's far too alert to go back to sleep now, his body thrumming with residual adrenaline from the night before. He wants to get back to work; he wants to find the organization that outed him as a spy to the public (and he wants to know _why_ they did it). Most of all, he wants to go back to the restaurant and find that fucking punk who shot Taemin. Although, given how angry he is right now, Jongin would probably cause more problems than he fixed if he got his hands on the shooter. 

He looks back at Taemin. He'll live, and that has to be enough. They're not here for revenge, as much as Jongin wishes right now. They just need to figure this out and go back home before anyone else gets hurt.

There's a mug of tea cooling on the side table, so Soojung must have come in at some point to check on Taemin. He can hear her now, moving around slowly in the other room, her voice a low murmur through the walls. He takes great care to rearrange the covers back up over Taemin's shoulders to keep him warm, smoothing out every last fold and wrinkle in the fabric with his hands. Taemin's nose scrunches, but he doesn't open his eyes. Jongin slips out of the room before he disturbs him any further.

Sure enough, Soojung's sitting out at the kitchen table coloring with Jonghee. She looks up when she hears Jongin's footsteps, her hand frozen. "Jongin?" she says, her eyebrows lifting. "Are you alright? Is Taemin—"

"He's fine. I couldn't sleep," he says. "Didn't want to wake him up. You came in?"

"I changed his dressing about an hour ago. Are you sure? You barely slept at all. Are we being too loud?" She sets the crayon she's been holding down onto the table. Jonghee blinks up at Jongin for a moment, seemingly puzzled by his disheveled appearance, then redirects her attention back to her scribbling.

"No, I'm just—you know. Last night was crazy. My mind's awake." Jongin waves his hands. "You stayed home?"

Soojung understands what he means. It's always this way after a shooting. She's seen him after dozens of ops. She knows he just needs some time to sit with himself and process. Decompress. Double the time, probably, because it's Taemin. If this were four years ago, she'd be arranging for him to meet with the department psychiatrist. Sometimes she'd even walk him to the fourth floor and wait outside, paperwork spread out over her knees. And she never, ever pried, not even when the sessions stretched long past the allotted forty-five minutes.

She's looking at him the same way now: curious, sympathetic. The expression of someone who hasn't ever been out in the field on an op gone wrong, but who has seen enough of the aftermath to know that it doesn't stop being traumatic after the immediate danger has passed.

"I told them Jonghee wasn't feeling well," she says. She smiles at him. "Couldn't tell them I had a fugitive recovering in my spare room, could I?"

"No," he agrees. "You really couldn't."

She flings her hand in the direction of the empty chair across from her. "Come and color, then."

Jongin laughs. "Seriously?"

"I would never joke about coloring," Soojung says, solemnly handing him a red crayon. "Jonghee's drawing a get-well card for Uncle Taemin. Maybe you can help her while I go fix you something to eat."

Jongin's chest clenches tightly. When he catches his breath, he moves a little closer to Jonghee, leaning over to see what she's drawing. Abstract, mostly, although he can see the unmistakable outline of a person, drawn in wobbly purple lines. 

Jongin opens his mouth to speak, and realizes he has no idea how to talk to a child. "Is that Taemin?" he blurts, pointing at the squiggles in the middle of the page. 

"Mmm." Jonghee nods, eyes still trained on the paper. She selects a blue crayon next and begins to outline some sort of daisy in Taemin's hand. To Jongin's knowledge, Taemin has never picked flowers in his life, but it's a nice thought. The optimism of a toddler.

"Thank you," he says, a lump rising in his throat. "He's going to love it."

☠☠☠

After a cursory meal of tteokguk that Soojung heats up for him, which Jongin barely tastes, he goes back to check on Taemin. With Soojung's help, he manages to rouse him long enough to change the dressing again and get him to take some antibiotics. Taemin's woozy and out of it even as he obediently swallows down the mouthful of tea with his pills, and he falls back asleep straight away without saying anything. Jongin sits on the edge of the bed for a while after, stroking his thumb against the back of Taemin's hand.

He's still very pale. He could probably do with another blood transfusion, truth be told, but it's just too risky, not when everything is so precarious. They'd lucked out with Baekhyun arriving at the clinic at precisely the moment he did, but it's too soon for a repeat performance without it affecting Baekhyun's health, as well. They'll have to make do.

Soojung comes back in with Jonghee's picture for Taemin and a piece of tape. "Motivation," she explains, taping it up over the sofa bed. She's written on it, translating toddler scrawl into neat characters underneath: _Feel better, Taemin-ah!_

Jongin stares at it for a long time after she leaves.

☠☠☠

"Come with me," Soojung says after she puts Jonghee down for her afternoon nap. She crooks her finger in Jongin's direction and beckons. "I think Baekhyun found something this morning."

Jongin follows Soojung into the back office, which seems to have gotten even more cluttered in the day and a half since last he'd seen it. "Taemin said we need to follow the financials. He's—he was working on it when—when we left yesterday." His face falls as he remembers: "It's all back at the safe house." 

Soojung purses her lips. "We can ask Jongdae to bring your things over. Maybe we can piece it together. Or maybe Taemin'll be feeling up to it by then." She looks at the shirt Jongin's wearing, including the three inches of bare wrist. "You'll be needing your own clothes, anyway."

An image of the bottle of lube, abandoned by Taemin and lying out on a pair of old jeans, flashes in Jongin's mind, and he's so startled he forgets to cover his mouth when he laughs. Jongdae's certainly going to have a surprise when he goes over to retrieve everything from the safe house. 

"What is it?" Soojung asks, turning to look at him. Jongin doesn't even know how to say it, so he shakes his head.

"Nothing. Don't worry about it. What did you find?"

Soojung eyes him suspiciously, half a smile quirking her mouth, but she doesn't push it. She takes him back to the wall of articles and plucks one from its pushpin, tearing it a little. "Here," she says. "Moonkyu said to look at Moreno? This is Moreno's organization."

Jongin looks at the article, detailing the kidnap and execution of a group of American tourists by some cartel. It's fairly recent—a month ago, maybe. He remembers it made the front page of the newspapers back in New York. "What does this have to do with Moreno? He's been dead for years, now."

"There's a new Moreno. Some woman—Baekhyun said you had a run-in with her back before—"

"Natalia."

"That's her name, yes."

Jongin looks up, eyes wide. He doesn't have a clear picture of what's going on, but it's another piece slotting into place. "You think Natalia's powerful enough? Moonkyu said something about the assassination of a politician's daughter, but even so. Why would it matter—that's local. This is so much bigger."

"It is, it's huge. Natalia isn't anyone. A pawn. She's definitely working for someone. She's the link. We might be able to get to them through her." Soojung sits on the edge of her desk and folds her hands in her lap. "After Colombia's cocaine production took a hit, the cartels had to find... alternate sources of revenue," Soojung says. "Someone—or some organization—saw this as an opportunity to contract them out for dirty work. The cartels jumped at the chance. They've got bills to pay, too."

"Mercenaries," Jongin says, looking up from the grainy, pixellated stock photo of the grave where they'd found the tourists. "But what kind of money can you make if you're just killing innocent people? What's the point? Who would do this?"

"Nobody's completely innocent." Soojung taps the second column. "Look. The names. Recognize anyone? You must have seen the reports."

"I try to stay away from the news," Jongin admits. "I see things—I remember hearing people talk about this, but I never bothered..." He trails off as he sees the name of a prominent U.S. Congressman. "Oh. Oh, _shit._ "

"Now you're getting it." She takes the article away from him. "Gordon Zimmerman was on the House Intelligence Committee. He had access to a lot of information—he just happened to be down in Colombia on vacation that weekend? I don't buy it."

"Was there an investigation?"

Soojung gives him a Look. "You know those things are never impartial, not when two governments are fighting over jurisdiction. They ruled it as a random act of violence, Colombia hosted some big Mass for the victims in the capital city, and it's all been forgotten now."

"So you think Zimmerman got too close?"

Soojung lifts a shoulder. "It's possible. It's also possible that he was one of them. We need to look into him. Baekhyun was going to do some digging today, but really we need my work computer. I have access to—well, let's just say the NIS isn't tapped in to every intelligence database on the internet."

"Can you do that without getting caught?" Jongin feels dizzy. He's still having a hard time understanding why his job would be so important. In the grand scheme of things, he was nobody. He didn't have any ties to anyone. 

"Of course I can." Soojung flips her braid over her shoulder and stands to leave. "Don't worry, Jongin. I know it doesn't sound _good_ , but it's progress."

"Moonkyu said they're going to release another name," Jongin blurts. "We have to stop them. We have to get them to stop." 

Soojung stands in the doorway, lips pursed. "We don't even know who they are, yet," she says, not unkindly. "We can't go to anyone with this. We don't have enough. Nobody would believe us for a second." And then, softly, her voice full of regret: "Especially since we're working with you."

Jongin puts his head in his hands, nodding at the floor. She's right, of course. They've got nothing, just a hunch, a lot of loose threads that don't seem to connect to anything. They've got to see this through to the end, themselves, because there's no other way.

When he finally gets a hold of himself and looks up, she's gone.

☠☠☠

When Baekhyun arrives home from work, Chanyeol's with him, a knapsack slung over one shoulder. It answers at least one of Jongin's burning questions: Chanyeol's alright. The knapsack's a little troubling, and it's even more concerning when Soojung welcomes him to their _Home for Lost Boys_.

"What happened?" he demands.

The police had arrived, alright—ten minutes after Jongdae had peeled out of the alleyway. They'd questioned Chanyeol about the blood in the alleyway, but he'd done his best to remove all traces of Taemin in the kitchen. By the time they stepped into his kitchen, the floor was freshly bleached and mopped, the bloody towels stashed away in black bags at the bottom of the kitchen trash barrel.

"I told them I was in the middle of closing up when I heard the noise. They're on the lookout for emergency rooms, clinics. Gunshot victims."

"I checked on Junmyeon," Baekhyun assures Jongin. "He's fine. Business as usual today, he said. Nobody suspects a thing. We got away with it."

"Do they know who did it? Did they find the shooter, or a gun?" Soojung asks, taking a seat at the kitchen table and pulling Jonghee into her lap. 

"A gun, they said. In the dumpster. They took my fingerprints, to make sure it wasn't mine." Chanyeol shrugs and bows his head. "I'm so, so sorry, Jongin."

Jongin frowns. "For what?"

"This is all because of me—if you'd stayed away, then Taemin wouldn't be—"

"Hey," Baekhyun says. "Chanyeol. You didn't shoot Taemin."

"They meant to shoot me," Chanyeol says quietly. "It's supposed to be me in there."

"There's no way anyone would mistake Taemin for you," Baekhyun argues. "You've got a foot on him. Taemin's got a history, Chanyeol, and he's made a lot of enemies. We can't rule out the possibility that he was followed—" 

Soojung rises to her feet, balancing Jonghee up on her hip. Baekhyun stops mid-sentence, unsure, an apology already on his lips.

"Letting her listen to this conversation probably falls under the 'bad parenting' category," Soojung explains. "Even if we're not sure if she'll remember it. I should go give her a bath—"

"No, let me," Baekhyun says. "You sit down, take a break."

"I'm fine."

"Yes, you are. That's why I married you," Baekhyun says, flashing her a cheesy grin. "Maybe I just want to spend some time with her." He scoops Jonghee into his arms and swings her low so that she squeals with delighted laughter.

"Daddy!"

"Daddy, we've got a patient in the next room," Soojung reminds him, holding her finger to her lips. "Jonghee, sweetheart, we need to be quiet for Uncle Taemin, remember?"

Jonghee holds her finger to her lips in a perfect mimic, but can't quite hold her giggles in. Baekhyun sweeps her away down the hallway, humming as he goes.

The kitchen is silent for a moment. Jongin tries to make eye contact with Chanyeol, but he's still staring down at his hands. He seems to be wrestling with himself to come to some sort of decision, until finally he does, and pulls the bloodied towels out of the knapsack. Jongin flinches bodily at the sight of them, unprepared for the sudden reminder of last night's violence. They're deep brown now, and ruined. 

"I'm sorry," Chanyeol says, noticing the look on Jongin's face. "I couldn't leave them behind, in case—in case they were found. I didn't know what else to do with them." He pulls them back in his lap, balling them into his fists, trying to hide them again. 

"Give those to me," Soojung says gently. "I'll take care of it."

Chanyeol hands them over obediently. "How is he?" he asks, directing his question to Jongin.

"Fine. He's—he'll be fine. What's happening with the restaurant?" He's dying for a subject change. Chanyeol, grateful, obliges.

"It—I said it was closed for renovations."

"They'll still look for you. They'll know—"

Soojung reaches across the table and puts her hand on Jongin's arm, to silence him. "We'll help, Chanyeol. You'll get your restaurant back."

"And my sister—"

"We won't let anything happen to Yura."

"Or Kyungsoo," Jongin chimes in.

Chanyeol gets up and starts to pace around the kitchen, his slippers scuffing on the tile floor. "Can I—have you guys eaten? Can I make dinner?" he asks. "I need to do something with my hands, I'm going crazy here."

"You don't have to do that—"

"Please," Chanyeol says. He smiles, but it's not enough to erase the worried lines from his face. "You're saving my life. It's the least I could do."

☠☠☠

They're halfway through dinner when Jongin senses it, or maybe he hears the shuffling noise in the hallway. Whatever it is, he's on his feet by the time he sees Taemin's face appear around the doorframe, his eyes dark and shadowed, his hair tousled and cowlicked and flat at the back from sprawling out across the pillows for a night and a day. He's cradling his left arm across his stomach, cautious not to move it too quickly and pull on his stitches.

"I'm so fucking thirsty," he croaks, his first real words since the clinic. Everyone laughs. He totters in and stands at the sink, patting around for a glass until Jongin comes up behind him and retrieves one from the cabinet above. 

"What happened?" Taemin asks, gesturing at himself. His breath is stale and his lips are chapped. The fingers of his good hand skirt up the hem of Jongin's t-shirt and settle on the knot of scar tissue in Jongin's back, the way they always do, right where it always hurts. "I woke up—where are we? Baekhyun's? How did we get here? Last I remember, I was in a car with Jongdae, waiting for you to come back from your meeting. How did that go, by the way?"

"You got shot," Jongin says, filling the glass with water from the tap. Of course Taemin's blocked it out. It'll come back to him, eventually, but the past twenty-four hours have been almost too much for Jongin to handle, so he understands. Taemin's brain needs time to switch off so his body can heal. Jongin wishes he could forget, too.

Taemin chugs the entire glass of water and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, lips still glistening pink. "Is Jongdae okay?" he asks, a little breathless. His eyes are still hooded, like he's still fighting to wake up properly.

"Yeah, he's—we were at Chanyeol's," Jongin says, running his hand through Taemin's hair, trying to comb it into submission with his fingers. "You were in the alley. You heard a noise and went out to check. You don't remember anything at all?"

"I thought it was just a weird dream." Taemin tips his forehead onto Jongin's collarbone, sidling in, chuckling a little to himself. "Is _Chanyeol_ okay?" He hasn't noticed him yet, hasn't taken stock of anyone sitting in the kitchen. Right now, he can't see anyone but Jongin.

"He's fine." Jongin refills the glass of water and pushes it back over to Taemin along with the orange pill bottle full of antibiotics. "So are you. We got you to the clinic in time. Now, drink."

He looks better after. He plants a feathery kiss on Jongin's chin and ambles over to the dinner table, where Soojung's found him a chair. He refuses a full plate of food and picks off Jongin's instead. Jongin keeps offering him pieces of meat, extended daintily between his chopsticks, hand cupped underneath to catch the grease drips as Taemin wavers, and then finally relents, lips parted just enough to fit around each mouthful. He only eats a few pieces, but it's enough to satisfy Jongin, for now.

Chanyeol re-introduces himself for Taemin's benefit, since he's still missing huge gaps from last night's events. He doesn't pull a gun this time, and Taemin doesn't tackle him to the floor, which is a vast improvement, Jongin thinks. 

"You really had Jongin scared," Chanyeol says, like he hadn't been just as shaken, just as terrified. 

"I've never seen him like that," Baekhyun agrees, elbowing Jongin in the ribs when he blushes and dips his chin to his chest. 

"It was very cute," Soojung says, defending Jongin even as she swats Baekhyun on the back of the head. Baekhyun yelps, but she ignores his protests in favor of smiling across the table at Taemin. "Anyway, Taemin. I'm glad you're back with us."

Taemin grins, wiping a napkin across his mouth before he speaks. "You were in my dreams." 

Jongin bursts out laughing. Baekhyun makes a disgruntled noise, still rubbing the back of his head. "This again?"

"I was in your _room_ ," Soojung tells him, chuckling. "I helped change your dressing."

Taemin nods, as if the thought hadn't occurred to him. His expression sobers. "Thank you," he says, addressing Baekhyun, as well. "For everything."

 

 

At the conclusion of dinner, Taemin ambles away, back to sleep. Jongin's about to follow him when Jongdae arrives, finally. He's got their bags from the safe house, one on each shoulder, and he drops them both to the floor of Baekhyun's living room with an overly dramatic sigh.

"Moonkyu got in touch," he says, toeing at the bag closest to him. "You're meeting with him tomorrow night. Same place. Are you going to be okay to do it? Because I know he wants to deal with you, but if you're not feeling up to it, then maybe I can arrange—"

"It's fine," Jongin says quickly. "I can do it." He'd rather stay back here, with Taemin, but he's also dying to get back to Moonkyu and ask him what he's heard about Natalia's organization and the dead Congressman. Besides, Taemin will tell him to go. Taemin will probably want to come too (although that's entirely out of the question).

"Of course you can," Jongdae says, punching Jongin's bicep. There's a warm smile on his face. "You're a professional."

Baekhyun's about to lead Jongdae away to the kitchen to scrounge for leftovers from Chanyeol's dinner when he doubles back, pointing at Jongin.

"Before I forget," Jongdae says, indicating the bags by the door. "I think I got everything, but if I didn't—that's it. It's really not safe to go back right now, not if we're being watched, so..."

"Nothing valuable," Jongin assures him. "Thank you."

"I know how you travel," Jongdae agrees. A thought occurs to him: "I left you guys a gun. What did you end up doing with it? Tossing it? Or do you still have it?"

Cold fear turns the blood in Jongin's veins to icy slush with sudden panic. In the chaos last night, he hadn't even thought about the stupid fucking gun. "Shit," he says, clutching at his chest to hold himself steady. "The Norinco. Taemin had it with him last night. He must've dropped it in the alley after he got shot."

Jongdae's eyes stretch so wide that Jongin can see a perfect ring of white around his irises. " _What_ ," he whispers. "Jongin, if his prints are on that gun—"

 _Fingerprints. They took Chanyeol's fingerprints—to match to the gun in the dumpster—_ "Fuck," Jongin croaks, feeling lightheaded. They're going to know. The police are going to run the prints through the system and figure out that Taemin's back in the country, and then they're never going to stop looking for him. They're hours away from being trapped, if they aren't already.

"Jongin?" Jongdae's got his hands on Jongin's shoulders, trying to get him to speak.

"The police found a gun in the dumpster behind Chanyeol's restaurant—"

Jongdae closes his eyes, resigned. "Did they say—"

"I don't know."

"Anybody want coffee—?" Baekhyun asks, swinging into the living room. "Hey. What's the matter?"

"It might not be the Norinco," Jongin says stubbornly, even as his stomach curdles. _It's got to be the Norinco._ "It might be the gun the shooter used on Taemin. It might've fallen somewhere—"

"Jongin. Jongin, you think they're going to miss a gun during a sweep of the alley? The shooter was smart enough to avoid getting caught, of course he's smart enough to take the gun with him—"

"Jesus," Baekhyun says as comprehension dawns on him. "Fuck. We're in trouble, aren't we?"

Jongdae looks up, his mouth pressed into a tight line. "We're about to be."

☠☠☠


	8. Chapter 8

☠☠☠

Jongdae's been doing slow laps around the kitchen table for the better part of half an hour, eyes lowered to his feet sliding away from him. Nobody's talking, nobody's even looking at each other. Jongin sits next to Baekhyun, both hands cupped around his stone-cold cup of tea, untouched, listening to the steady clack of keys as Baekhyun turns them all into co-conspirators by hacking into the police database to check the open and pending cases.

Finally, Soojung dares to break the silence and clears her throat. "Have they ever gotten his fingerprints on anything?"

It's been five years since Jongin's had Taemin's file in his hands, but he still has every word memorized. "He was identified as a person of interest in a few gang-related incidents back when he was a teenager. They brought him in but couldn't make it stick, and by the time they had gathered enough evidence he was already in the jungle where they couldn't touch him."

Chanyeol's forehead creases with confusion. "Gang-related incidents," he says, sounding like he's afraid to ask. 

"More tea?" Soojung rises to her feet. Chanyeol watches her fill the kettle with water from the tap, and then looks back at Jongin.

"He was in a gang? What—what kind of gang?"

The words dry up in Jongin's throat. He doesn't have the faintest idea how to explain Taemin's past to an outsider without it painting a certain picture of the type of person Taemin's supposed to be. The type of person he _isn't_ —not anymore, not for a long time now. 

Luckily, Baekhyun rescues him from having to explain himself. "Got it!" he chirps, pushing the laptop away from him so the others can crowd around. "Internal bulletin circulating through the departments, nobody's allowed to speak to the media yet."

Jongin sees the memo: _NOTICE: FUGITIVE AT LARGE_ in block letters, and an incredibly old picture of teenaged Taemin, his hair shaggy and dark and unkempt. He looks like a wild creature. Jongin's seen glimpses of this person in Taemin's instinctive reactions to things, but never photographic evidence of the defiance in his eyes. He looks cold. He looks incredibly dangerous, even for a scrawny kid, because there's unpredictability in his quirked half-smile. A challenge to whichever police officer snapped this: _prove it was me._

The bad news: they think Taemin's the shooter. Of course they find a gun in the alley with his fingerprints on it, they're going to think he's the one who pulled the trigger, not the one on the receiving end of the bullet. But the good news is they've been focusing on the gang's upper echelon, which means they're in for a world of uncooperative witness statements from people who think Taemin's dead. They've got some time.

Soojung comes over and puts her hands on Jongin's shoulders, squeezing them tightly. "It's okay," she says. "He's evaded them this long. We'll keep him safe."

Chanyeol's reading the text underneath Taemin's picture. Baekhyun tries to scroll past the more incriminating information, but it's too late. "Ssang Yong Pa?" Chanyeol says. Jongin closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Is that who he is?"

"Not anymore." Jongdae stops his pacing and leans up against the counter. "He's out of the game." Jongin wants to get up and hug him for coming to Taemin's defense but Soojung's still pinning him in place under her hands.

Chanyeol appears unconvinced. "This says—he was the most notorious—"

"He's retired," Baekhyun says. "He doesn't do that anymore. He's on our side now."

"You're telling me you've got a killer in the other room and you're just—"

"You remember what they said about Jongin?" Jongdae says, lowering his voice to a fierce whisper at Baekhyun's urging. "He was a patriot or a traitor, depending on the context. And the truth was somewhere in between. That's where we've always operated."

Soojung finally eases off Jongin's shoulders and takes her seat. "We're asking a lot of you, Chanyeol, I know. But you have to trust us. We are your friends, and you are perfectly safe here. We'd never put you in harm's way—we'd never put _Jonghee_ in harm's way. Taemin's good. And he keeps his promises."

Chanyeol sits back and rubs his face. "He's a gangster." 

Jongin's chest tightens, because gangster really doesn't seem like the right word for someone who comes home at the end of every work day and wraps an arm around Jongin's chest and says something like, _I think we should get a dog._ Or someone who constantly interrupts Jongin when he's trying to finish a book by clambering up into his lap and kissing him until he drops the book on the floor and loses his spot. 

Jongdae sighs. "See, this is why I wanted to keep Chanyeol out of this."

Baekhyun dismisses this with a wave of his hand. "Oh, come on, Jongdae, he already knew about Jongin. He's been in this for a long time. We can't keep it a secret from him if he's going to be here while we work."

"I'm just saying. He's known Jongin for years, he's known Taemin for five minutes, four of which he's been bloody or unconscious."

"What does he do now, then?" Chanyeol asks. He's staring right at Jongin, his eyes wide but inquisitive. "What _have_ you been doing in New York, Jongin?"

☠☠☠

The light's on and Taemin's still awake when Jongin slips inside the spare room and shuts the door behind him. When he sees him sitting up, he freezes in place, hand on the knob, fingers slipping one by one from their grip back into a useless fist by his side. Taemin's half-propped up against the pillows, slowly peeling the medical tape away from his chest with a burning curiosity to get a look at his stitches.

Jongin locates his voice. It comes grinding out of him, an unfamiliar, terse sound. "Stop doing that."

Taemin looks up from underneath his eyebrows. The smile lines in his face fade, replaced by a narrow sort of concern. He abandons the gauze and pats the bed next to him.

"Why are you still awake?" Jongin asks instead. He sits, for lack of anything better to do, but there's an entire mattress between them. The panic from the past day and a half is gone. After the conversation with Chanyeol, he feels like a spent lightbulb—burnt out, numb. Even after Jongin detailed what little he knows of Allied's operations and what Taemin's been up to these days, Chanyeol seemed skeptical and withdrawn as he tried to puzzle it out. Jongin couldn't blame him. When you're a civilian, the line between right and wrong is easily distinguishable. When you operate outside of society's parameters… it gets a lot murkier.

Jongin's been put through the wringer, and his psychological state... well, it's been a long time since he's had to function with the multi-layer awareness of an operation. Back in New York, the only risks he'd had to calculate were minor—when to cross the street to avoid the taxis, when to switch back to water from alcohol to make sure they both got home okay. He'd known this side of himself, but perhaps he'd forgotten, with distance, and with time. He hadn't realized how compartmentalized his old life had been. How much easier it used to be. He's not ready for this, he wasn't ready for this and he should've known better.

Jongin puts his head in his hands and heaves a sigh. Nothing more to do tonight but wait, and worry. He's too exhausted to think any more, but too tense to sleep. And his meeting tomorrow, with Moonkyu, god only knows if that's going to be fruitful at all.

Taemin makes an incredible noise of effort as he struggles to crawl forward, a yelping, pained sort of whimper that he can't quite stifle, and then he's curled around Jongin. "Hey," he says. "What's going on?" He reaches out blindly to rap his knuckles on Jongin's thigh.

Jongin twists to look at Taemin. His cheeks are soft and pink, but there are weary circles under his eyes. He's been speaking to Jongin in this voice that's raw and unfamiliar. He sounds... _tired_. It's a little lower, a little slower, stripped of its bravado and enthusiasm and laid bare. _Gangster,_ Jongin thinks, hearing it in Chanyeol's voice, and he wants to show him this side of Taemin and say, _he just needed someone to ask him what he wanted, because it wasn't that life, it never was._

"I'm glad you're okay," Jongin murmurs. He catches at Taemin's hand and holds it.

Taemin scoffs. "Of course I'm okay—"

"Don't. Please. Just—don't do that right now. The jokes—it's not funny. You didn't see yourself last night, you didn't have to—you nearly died." Jongin's jaw clenches. It takes a few deep breaths through his nose before he can trust himself to speak calmly. 

With extreme difficulty, Taemin slowly pushes himself up on his elbow, and then uses Jongin's shoulder to pull himself back into a seated position. "What happened?" he asks. "You weren't this upset at dinner. Something happened."

"You should sleep."

"Jongin."

"And drink some water. Do you need more? I can go get—"

" _Jongin_. I'm fine. Talk to me. Tell me what's going on." Assertiveness works its way back into Taemin's tone. He's trying, really trying, to get back to normal. He's stubborn enough when he has a cold, this is just an extension of Taemin's unwillingness to accept his body's limitations. And Jongin knows he's no stranger to working through injury. Taemin's not Chanyeol. Taemin's never needed protection from ugly truths.

"The Norinco," Jongin says. "The police have it. And your prints. You're—they're looking for you. They think you've killed someone." 

Taemin fills in the rest of Jongin's concern and while his voice is steady, the way he drops his forehead on Jongin's shoulder in defeat is all apology, and guilt, and a million other things he's never really been great at articulating, but expresses all the same, in his own way. 

"Well, fuck." 

"Nothing to do about it now." Police seem more concerned with canvassing the area looking for a victim. Without a body, there's very little proof of a crime. There wasn't enough blood to prove much of anything. So, they're okay for now—but for how long? Junmyeon said take it easy for two weeks, but two weeks is pushing it when Seoul's this fraught for them, and Taemin's in no shape to sneak out of the country, not when he still needs to lean on Jongin or a wall to avoid stumbling. His condition hardly lends itself to his usual stealth.

Taemin goes quietly obedient after that. It doesn't take much for Jongin to coax him back under the covers and he's completely unconscious by the time Jongin gets back from taking a piss. Jongin sits for a while in the dark, stroking Taemin's hair and listening to the deep stillness of a house in slumber. He wants... resolution. Safety. This thing with the other spies—it's not his business anymore. This isn't his game. He's going to see Moonkyu tomorrow as promised, and then he's going to get Taemin out of the country on the earliest flight, Junmyeon's warnings be damned. The others can handle it. They can do this. They're better-equipped, anyway. He's just getting in the way.

☠☠☠

In the morning, which comes much sooner than Jongin had expected, he rises to find the house mostly empty. Jonghee's off at daycare and Baekhyun and Soojung are back at work to keep up appearances. Chanyeol's already awake and makes Jongin something to eat. Jongin picks at it, too weary with frayed nerves to care what he's shoveling into his mouth, although he's vaguely aware that it tastes good.

Taemin's moving around too, stiffly, wearing his sling, the top three buttons of his shirt left open so nothing's pressing directly on his stitches. He looks like a fucking mess, but he manages a smile and waves off anyone who offers to give up their seat to let him rest. Instead, he goes out on the back porch and smokes two cigarettes in rapid succession with his coffee, one right after the other, his first nicotine fix in days. 

He winces when Jongin crowds in and kisses his temple, but he still shuffles closer instead of moving away, wraps his good arm around Jongin's waist to anchor him there. 

"How do you feel?" Jongin asks, hand skimming down Taemin's ribs, coming to rest softly on his hip. Taemin shrugs and takes another drag of his third cigarette. The ash tip dangles precariously but does not scatter into the breeze.

"Like I got shot. It's not the first time." He smiles and offers Jongin the cigarette. 

Jongin nods, leans in, and lets Taemin slip it between his lips. He never really picked up the habit, even though years of nothing to do on jobs had given him ample opportunity for a number of vices, given the inclination. He's gotten used to the taste of Taemin's brand, though. It's soothing. Familiar.

"I've got to go meet Moonkyu tonight," Jongin says.

"I'm coming."

"You're staying here where it's safe and you're going to rest. And tomorrow—we need to get out of here."

"Where are we going to go?"

"Anywhere but here. First flight out of the country we can get on."

"No." Taemin shakes his head. "Too risky. Law enforcement's everywhere right now. We have to let it die down before we make a move."

"Taemin, you're in danger—"

"We'd go to jail, Jongin. Both of us. And probably the others, too. I won't allow it." He seems to notice Jongin's infintesimal flinch at the word _jail_ and smiles grimly. "Just let me handle it, okay?"

"How are you going to handle it?"

Taemin shrugs. "I have before. Just let me think."

Jongin knows Taemin's body intimately. He's mapped out every inch of him underneath his palms. There's a shiny pink scar from a bullet wound, raised and perfectly round, on the soft skin of Taemin's left bicep. Another one just to the side of his shoulder blade, hooked like a crescent moon. Any closer to his spine and he probably wouldn't have walked again. His body's already been through a war. Jongin decides that this one, once it heals, will be the last one that happens on his watch.

"Thanks," Taemin says softly, no laughter in his voice this time. He retrieves the cigarette from Jongin's mouth. Jongin rests his chin on Taemin's good shoulder, body curved protectively over him. 

"For what," Jongin murmurs, and watches Taemin stub the cigarette out with the toe of his boot.

☠☠☠

Night falls. Jongin chokes down most of the coffee Chanyeol makes for him, bracing himself for another long night. Baekhyun's been uncharacteristically quiet since he got home from work. Soojung says there's an issue at the agency but doesn't elaborate further other than, _"nothing to do with you or Taemin, don't worry,"_ and Chanyeol's still looking nauseated every time somebody mentions espionage or crime, so Jongin doesn't press it any further.

"Remember to ask Moonkyu about Zimmerman. And Natalia," Soojung reminds him when Jongdae pulls into the driveway and flashes his high beams twice. She catches him looking past her down the hallway to where Taemin's been sleeping since dinner, and smiles. "He's fine. He'll still be asleep when you get back. Go."

Jongdae pushes a face mask into Jongin's hands the minute he slides into the passenger seat. "Just in case," he says. "Last thing we need is anybody noticing you."

Jongin loops it over his ears and sits back, listening to the quiet rumble of the engine underneath him.

"How's Chanyeol doing?" Jongdae asks after a few minutes. "I checked in on Kyungsoo today. Told him to go somewhere safe and lie low."

"He knows about the loan shark?"

"He does now. And he's _pissed_ Chanyeol kept him in the dark about it, but that'll be Chanyeol's problem to make it up to him after this is all resolved." He glances over at Jongin. "You know, I don't blame Chanyeol for not trusting Taemin. I don't even know if _I_ completely trust him yet."

Jongin closes his eyes. "I'm sorry."

"You trust him, though, and I trust you. That's enough for me." He pulls up at a red light. Jongin catches the driver next to them looking over. It's innocent enough, but Jongin still sinks back in his seat a little, trying to find a nonchalant way to hide his eyes.

"What's up with Baekhyun?" He asks, using the question as an excuse to turn his back to the window. "What's happening at the agency? He seemed really distracted when he got back today."

The light turns green. Jongdae accelerates away. "An operative disappeared," he says, finally, very reluctant to tell Jongin anything at all. 

Jongin inhales sharply, remembering what Moonkyu said, that there was another name, that it was going to go down this month. "Moonkyu said someone was next—"

"Jongin. It's—Baekhyun sent them with incompatible technology. The operative's sitting somewhere in China with a bricked phone and no way to make a secure phone call. It happens from time to time. Baekhyun's just got the director breathing down his neck to find a solution. You know how he hates it when people criticize his work."

It's true. Baekhyun's always been proud of his accomplishments, but quick to sour when something goes wrong that could have been prevented with adequate precautions. "But still," Jongin insists, "someone should go looking for them."

"We're on it, Jongin, don't worry. An extraction team is on their way. Focus on Moonkyu and getting some useful information out of him. That's why you're here."

☠☠☠

Jongin sits at the food stand for an hour and a half by himself before he starts to get that sinking feeling of dread that something's not quite right. He'd been a little suspicious when Moonkyu hadn't been there to meet him, but he sat anyway and ordered a beer, trying to drink it as slowly as possible to buy time. He's on his third now and he's wondering if Jongdae got the meeting place wrong, or if Moonkyu's in trouble.

He stumbles around the block, faking drunk until he's sure he's out of sight of anyone who's still out this late and then gets in the car where Jongdae's waiting. "Moonkyu was a no-show," he says. "Are you sure you got the details for the meeting place right?"

"I'm sure," Jongdae says, baffled. "He said same place same time. This is the spot, right?" He extracts the piece of paper from his wallet where he'd written the details—the bare minimum, of course, but Jongin's worked with Jongdae enough to decipher his shorthand.

And Jongin'd been careful enough to check the place on his way out for some kind of signal from Moonkyu, something to communicate they needed to reschedule. Nothing. " _Now_ will you believe me—"

"Look," Jongdae says, cutting Jongin off before he can start rattling off theories about this shadowy organization yet again. "Police presence in the city has increased, _for obvious reasons_ , so maybe he felt he couldn't show himself right now. You know he's a nervous guy."

"Wouldn't he call back and cancel the meeting?"

"Not necessarily. Maybe he couldn't from where he is."

"Jongdae, please, with everything that's been going on lately—"

"Moonkyu escaped these people once, Jongin, I think he's alright. He's always doing this to us. He calls for a meeting and doesn't resurface until days later. I'm not worried." He looks at Jongin, his eyes soft with concern. "You, though—are you okay? You're losing it, Jongin—this paranoia is not like you."

It's really nothing like Jongin, but it's the unfortunate byproduct of falling headfirst back into the game. Still, Jongin's always trusted his gut. It's never let him down. He can feel it now—something's off. "He said he was working for someone new. Do you know?"

Jongdae shakes his head and refolds the piece of paper. "I don't. He's never said. He never really wanted to talk to me, Jongin, remember? You were always his favorite around here. After you—uh, _retired_ —he stopped coming around. Until recently, of course. He only just got back in touch last month."

"Why last month?"

"Don't know. It was the first break we'd had in ages," Jongdae says, shrugging. "He called us up out of the blue and asked for you. When we told him we couldn't tell him your whereabouts, he said that he had information that had to do with what happened to you in Colombia, and he's been giving us the run-around ever since."

"Call him. Right now."

"What?"

"Call him. You've got to have a way to get in touch with him, right?"

"He always calls us, I don't even know if he's using a burner or what—"

"Have the call traced. Maybe it'll tell us something."

Jongdae has his phone in his hands and ready to dial when it rings. Baekhyun's face leers out from the display in a truly embarrasing selca that Jongin would've used as blackmail if he didn't know Baekhyun well enough to know he probably took it himself. 

Jongdae answers it with a frown. "I was just about to call you, there's—Hey. Baekhyun. Slow down. I said slow down. Moonkyu didn't—yes, I'm listening, are you listening to me? Because—oh." He looks at Jongin nervously. "Yeah. He's here. Let me put you on speaker."

Jongdae taps the phone with his thumb and Baekhyun's voice balloons to life between them in the car. His voice is strained. "Jongin. Hey. Did Taemin know where you were going? Did you tell him?"

"Yeah," Jongin says slowly. "Why?"

"He's… uh. Well. He's not here, Jongin. Soojung went in to check on him and the bed's empty. We can't find him anywhere."

"What? Are you sure he didn't just go out back to smoke?" Beside him, Jongdae pinches the bridge of his nose and mutters something that sounds like, _of course, because this night can't get any worse._

"No. Chanyeol's driving around the block looking for him, but—" There's a loud rustling sound as Baekhyun presses the phone up against his shirt to speak to someone, and then clarity: "Never mind. He's back. He just walked in."

Jongin feels as if he's going to be sick with the whiplash—panicked to frightened to relieved in under a minute. "Where was he? Where'd he go?"

Baekhyun ignores him. It sounds like somebody's having a conversation right next to him, but the reception's too broken to decipher over the phone. "Get home, guys, if you're done with whatever you're doing. Something's up."

☠☠☠

It's the longest drive of Jongin's life. He desperately wants Jongdae to break the speed limits, but there's no way to do that without the risk of attracting unwanted attention. By the time they pull up in Baekhyun's driveway Jongin's already slipped his seatbelt. He doesn't wait for the car to come to a complete stop or for the engine to turn off before he barrels out of his door and runs up the front steps.

Taemin's sitting at the kitchen table next to Baekhyun, who's furiously typing away at his laptop, and Soojung, who's trying to get Taemin to eat something. He looks up when Jongin comes in and a wide smile splits his face. He's completely calm, like he hasn't just turned the entire household upside down by disappearing for an hour.

"Hey, how'd it go, sunsh—"

Jongin's not having it right now, even if privately he's so relieved that Taemin's still safe and sitting here that he wants to cry. "No, don't ' _hey_ ' me, where the fuck did you go?"

"Jongin," Soojung says. "He's okay, that's what's really important right now."

Jongdae appears in the doorway. He's still wearing his shoes. "Okay? After putting you guys in danger like that, he's _okay_. No way—"

"Jongdae," Baekhyun cautions, eyes still trained on his computer screen. "Hear him out."

"You know it's not safe out there. Moonkyu didn't show up for our meeting, and they've got a missing operative somewhere out there, and there are police looking to lock you in a cell and throw away the key, and you're just—what were you _thinking_?" Jongin says. "How could you—"

"I told you I'd handle it," Taemin says. He gets to his feet with his arms raised like he means to hug Jongin but sways a little on the way, prompting Jongin to catch him at the waist to hold him steady.

"Easy. What did you do?" Jongin asks. He sees it then, the faint line of blood seeping through Taemin's shirt. "Taemin, shit, your stitches. Junmyeon told you to take it easy—what _happened_?" 

"I'll go get the sewing kit," Baekhyun says, finally looking up from his work. His eyes are red with exhaustion. Soojung pats his arm as he rises and disappears down the hall.

"I needed to check in with an old contact," Taemin says, allowing Jongin to maneuver him back into his chair. "Didn't want to make a phone call and possibly lead him back here, so I went to him instead."

"Contact? What kind of contact? One of your old gang—"

"No, no. Third party. Money launderer I used to work with. He's in it for himself, he doesn't work for anyone."

"Were you followed?" Jongdae demands. "Are you so sure they wouldn't be watching—"

"I know how to lose a tail," Taemin says, a little condescendingly. "But no, Wonshik's clean—I didn't start working with him until I left the organization, so they don't know about him. Moonkyu didn't show? Where is he?"

"Taemin, focus," Jongin says, cupping Taemin's chin in his palm and pulling it around to face him. "We can talk about that later. You said you'd handle it. What happened?"

"Ssang Yong Pa is moving into Chanyeol's neighborhood. That's—they're the ones putting the squeeze on him. They bought his debt from whoever held it before. They want control of the local business owners, and if they're not cooperative, they want them gone. That's why the loan shark is coming so hard for Chanyeol. Because Chanyeol won't cave to their demands. The guy who shot me—he's one of theirs."

Jongdae narrows his eyes. "So?"

"He recognized me outside Chanyeol's restaurant and took his chance. Lucky this particular guy is an idiot, although Wonshik says word on the street is he's in a world of trouble for missing me. Apparently they're still pretty mad about the Japan deal falling through all those years ago. And since now they know I'm not dead… they're planning on fixing that as soon as possible."

☠☠☠


	9. Chapter 9

For all his bravery the other night at the clinic, Taemin can't stop fidgeting when Jongin's the one stitching him up. He refuses to go lie down on the couch so Soojung holds his shoulders back and tries to keep him still while Jongin tends to him. It's mostly ineffective. He's been wriggling under Jongin's hands, bowing his head into Jongin's shoulder and making loud whimpering noises that Jongin's half-convinced are mostly theatre.

"Taemin," Jongin admonishes when a particularly hard tug on the thread has Taemin flailing into the table. Soojung's laughing; Chanyeol's sitting sideways with his hand over his eyes, trying to keep Jongdae talking to him so he doesn't accidentally glance over at the carnage and pass out. Baekhyun's still at his computer, hunched close to the screen and frowning.

"Who taught you how to sew? An orangutan? Seriously, Jongin, I think you're making it worse—"

"Field medicine isn't supposed to be pretty." Jongin ties another delicate, tiny knot. "It's just supposed to keep you from falling apart."

"This is the field?" Taemin winces dramatically and then flings his head back, shaking loose from Soojung's grip. He opens his mouth against Jongin's forearm and bites hard, like a feral animal caught in a trap. Jongin takes his hands away and pins Taemin to his seat with a fierce glare. 

"Stay still, asshole," Jongin says, waiting until Taemin's squirming settles enough that he can snip the loose ends of the suture without worrying about stabbing him in the ribs with the scissors. "All done."

Soojung steps away to get the gauze, and Taemin seizes the opportunity to do a little more damage of his own. He swings his fist up and lets the momentum bring his body over and onto Jongin. Jongin's not expecting it and so he's caught off guard with no chance of blocking the hit. Taemin's knuckles make solid, stunning contact with Jongin's cheek. It smarts.

"Ow, _fuck_ ," Jongin spits, wincing. Jongdae's half out of his chair to get in between them but Jongin waves him off, shaking his head. Taemin grins, cheeky and unrepentant, and pats Jongin's face where he'd hit it, but gently this time, his fingertips sweeping delicately over the bone. That's all the fight left in him now and his body goes lax, reclining against the back of the chair. Jongin grabs Taemin's chin and leans in until their noses are millimeters apart, close enough that even in the small kitchen, the others will have to strain to hear what he's saying, only to miss it.

"I—" Taemin starts, and then halts, because even after everything, he still can't say it. Jongin's eyes go warm, fond. He's heard that hesitation enough times that he just fills in the rest.

"Me too. Quit being such a baby," he teases, releasing him.

"You're a butcher. I'll kill you next time." Taemin sighs happily and sits back, watching Soojung apply medical tape to his skin. Jongin rolls his eyes.

"If you stayed in bed like Junmyeon said, you wouldn't have pulled out your stitches, and we wouldn't have this problem."

"I'm fine. Aren't I, Soojung?" Taemin beams up at her, sunny and bright. She laughs.

"You will be. Jongin did a good job."

Taemin examines at the teeth marks in Jongin's arm, running his fingers over them. "I'm sorry," he says, looking decidedly not. Jongin ruffles his hair.

"Just don't go running away again. Nobody knew where you were—"

"—I said I was with Wonshik—"

"—and it's not safe to be out there alone, especially not when an entire syndicate's after you! Christ, Taemin, this isn't a game."

Taemin goes quiet then, almost like he's sulking. Jongin gathers up the materials from the first aid kit and starts to put them away. His hands are still shaking a little, even though Taemin's safe and sound at the kitchen table, Soojung doting on him with more food, laughing at his jokes, pushing the pot of coffee closer so he can reach it with his good arm.

Chanyeol turns to him. Taemin's fiddling with the bandage on his chest and trying to button up his shirt one-handed, an effort that seems mostly futile with the way his thumbs keep searching for the plackets. "You okay?" Chanyeol asks tentatively.

Taemin smiles at him gently. "Yeah, I'm fine. It's been a lot worse."

Chanyeol notices the way Jongin's watching them both. "How much worse?" he asks.

Something flickers in Taemin's expression. He tilts his head, studying Chanyeol, and then leans back, mouth open, wordless until, "Well, I. Well."

"It's okay," Jongin says softly. _You can tell him._ Chanyeol knows anyway. He's seen the mugshot and the police bulletin. He's already been thinking the worst (although the truth about Taemin's past isn't too far from what Chanyeol's probably been imagining). Better to just get it out in the open. Show Chanyeol that there's more. That they've all got these ugly sides to them, every single person in this kitchen.

"What do you want to know?" Taemin asks.

Chanyeol licks his lips. Swallows heavily. "Have you ever killed anyone?"

Baekhyun glances up from his laptop, alarmed. "Chanyeol, I don't think—"

"Yes," Taemin says without flinching. Chanyeol nods.

"When did you join Ssang Yong Pa?" he asks. Straight to the point. Jongin suddenly finds it very difficult to look anyone in the eye, as though it's his shame, as though Taemin really had any choice in the matter.

Taemin smiles, as casual as can be, prepared for this. He's so relaxed Chanyeol could be asking him questions about the weather. "I was seven," he says. "A few guys saw me stealing candy from the convenience store and thought I had potential. It was small at first—I was really good at picking pockets, and it was great, because they let me keep a lot of things. And it was a place to go after school, where everyone was happy to see me."

"Bad family?"

Now Soojung's the one cringing.

"No," Taemin says. "Very good. I loved them. There was no excuse for becoming," he gestures at himself, "this."

"Are they still alive?"

"You mean did I kill them?" Taemin's eyes twinkle. "No, I left them a long time ago. They're safe."

"How many people _have_ you killed?"

"Personally, or just allowed it to happen?"

Soojung cuts in now, winding the string of her teabag around her spoon. "Jongin, how many people have _you_ killed? On assignment." It's blunt enough that Jongdae makes a clicking noise of disapproval in the back of his throat, warning her off, but she's made her point. Taemin's not the only one in the room with blood on his hands.

Jongin's spent the last four years trying to forget what he's done, if only so he can get to sleep at night and stay that way. He's not a monster, but he feels like one most days, whenever a memory surfaces, a face. They all appear the same to him, all desperate, resigned. Not ready for death, but aware that they're out of time anyway. It hurts, the same kind of sick ache low in his belly, every time: he was following orders, but to what end? What does he have to show for it now?

"I don't—I don't remember," he says, even though he does: twenty-seven. That he knows of. It's been that same, sick, hollow feeling since the first one, and now he's retired with twenty-seven confirmed. His record used to say twenty-eight, Taemin's name among them, but everything's been falsified, cleaned up. Twenty-seven doesn't include the casualties from explosives he's set, from information he's leaked, from deals he's made. Twenty-seven's probably low-balling it. Twenty-seven's probably higher than Taemin's number.

The way Chanyeol's looking at him right now, though—disgusted, a little wary, like he's seeing Jongin for the very first time—Jongin feels the same way about himself. On the other side of him, Taemin's face is wide-open, sympathetic, gentle. He knows what's running through Jongin's mind. He's probably had the same thoughts. Anyone with a conscience would.

"I did some very, very bad things," Taemin concedes. "At the time, I believed they were the right thing to do, and that I had no other option. I think that part's true, at least. They probably would've killed me if I hadn't."

"And they want to kill you now?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

 _Because of me,_ Jongin thinks, chin dropping to his chest. _All of this mess is because of me._ Jongdae slides a hand onto his shoulder and squeezes knowingly.

Taemin lifts a shoulder. "I blew a very important business venture for them that would've aligned them with the Yakuza. It had taken _years_ to get in on the ground floor with the gun trade in Thailand—they don't trust foreigners, especially ones who are obviously trying to cut them out of the deal. International prospects for a Korean street gang aren't that great without support from a bigger crime family. From what I hear—from what Wonshik told me last night, they've been struggling. That's why they're going back to loan sharking. Steady income, even if it's small."

"I put him in danger," Jongin blurts out before he can stop himself. "I told him to leave, if I hadn't—"

"Jongin, I didn't have to leave." Taemin swivels in his chair, away from Chanyeol and Soojung. "You gave me your real name. I could've gone to them with your letter and they would have protected me. They would've found you, and eliminated you." Taemin looks at Jongin with this rawness in his eyes like they're not having this private conversation for the first time in the middle of a kitchen surrounded by other people. "It wasn't even a question for me."

"You took that risk—you didn't know if you'd ever see him again, though," Soojung says, her eyes big and shining. Even Baekhyun's typing has slowed down. He's listening. They're all watching.

"I hoped," says Taemin.

"So you hung around Seoul… just waiting?"

"Yeah." Now Taemin's the one looking at the table, his cheeks pink. He's terrible at being serious when he's got an audience but here he is, laying it all out for Jongin, ducking the stares from the rest of the team. Jongin can't move. Jongin can't _breathe_.

This confession seems to have thawed something inside Chanyeol, too. "I'm glad you did. I've known Jongin since he was nineteen. The, uh—the army. We shared a bunk."

Taemin tips his chin up, his shyness instantly forgotten. These conversations he's good at. This, he knows how to navigate. He puts his hands over one of Chanyeol's big mitts and smiles. "Did he sleepwalk then, too?"

☠☠☠

Jongin's the one to walk Jongdae to the door when it's time for him to take his leave. Taemin's long-since retired to their room, and Baekhyun's just about finished working for the night (at Soojung's request—he still hasn't made contact with anyone, and he's going to have to get to the office early to resume his attempts). Jongdae looks over his shoulder to make sure they're really alone, and then puts his hands on Jongin's shoulders.

"I know Soojung wants you here to work on your thing, but we need to get you guys out of the country. If what Taemin's saying is true, then everyone's in a lot more danger than we first thought, and—god, Jongin, I'm sorry. You didn't sign up for this. It's gotten so out of hand so quickly."

"Doesn't it always?" Jongin flashes him a wry smile. "We can't leave now, hyung. Taemin's the one who knows the most about Ssang Yong Pa. We need to know everything he knows if we're going to stop them."

"Stop them? Jongin—how are we supposed to do that? We don't have the resources or the manpower—there's no way."

"We have to try. They're not just after us, they're after Chanyeol, and Yura and Kyungsoo—it's got to stop. We have to stop it."

Jongdae's forehead wrinkles with apprehension. "Jongin, you know we're not authorized to conduct any sort of mission off the books, especially with civilians—ex-employees, _anyone_ that poses a threat to national security, like Taemin. Ssang Yong Pa? They're huge, Jongin, I just don't know—"

"You don't have to do anything. I will." And the minute it comes out of his mouth, Jongin's committed to it. He's been out of the game for a long time—he'd thought it would be forever, but this is more important. He's here to clear his name and prevent what happened to him from happening to anyone else, but this is more immediate, more personal. This isn't about his career or his good name—he's never getting that back, and he knows it. This is about Chanyeol and Kyungsoo and Yura. Their baby. It's about Taemin, too. This will bring the peace of mind he's been searching for, even if it puts him directly in harm's way. But better him than the team, who have been sticking their necks out for him and Taemin this whole time. "Taemin can help. He knows their operations, he'll know the best way to make it happen. I'll go in undercover. Give him some space and let him run it."

"How can you be so sure he'll help you, Jongin? I know he's not with them anymore, and they've got a price on his head, but—they were his family. They raised him. Loyalty runs pretty deep."

"Yeah," Jongin says, thinking of Taemin's flushed cheeks, his shy admission. He remembers Taemin's pale face in the clinic, the bloody handprint on his wrist, the hundreds of nights he's spent rolling into his body heat, every last kiss and touch, every word he's said. Every word he _hasn't_. "I know it does. That's how I know he'll help."

☠☠☠

Back during his first few years in the service with the NIS, Jongin was on a job when he got caught too close to an explosion. He spent weeks in a shitty field hospital with an entirely American staff who spoke to him in stilted, translation-software Korean or not at all until Jongdae finally came to collect him. He's okay now, but his back's never been quite the same.

Truth be told it's mostly a non-issue most days, or rather, he doesn't think about it. There's the dull, ever-present ache that Taemin always seems attuned to, but usually Jongin doesn't even notice it's bothering him until Taemin's pressing two fingers right into the knot of scar tissue, hooking his chin over Jongin's shoulder and cracking jokes as he massages the tension away.

The pain at the time was excruciating—two separate surgeries to remove the shrapnel, followed by another when he got back to Seoul. The cartilage permanently fucked up and worn thin. Walking again without a limp seemed pretty doubtful, which meant his career with the NIS was in jeopardy. All because he hadn't cleared the area fast enough. One stupid mistake nearly ended it all.

It was Chanyeol who came and got him when he was released; Chanyeol helping him to the toilet every time he needed to go. Eventually, he got used to holding himself upright through the agony, and eventually the agony gave way to something he could tolerate. Knowing that the team was waiting for him to come back kept him trying to push through the pain, kept him motivated even when Chanyeol found him sitting in the middle of the hall banging his fists against the floor. He spent a long time practicing his steps, one after the other, until one day he could step away from a hard surface and walk as smoothly as he had before the accident.

But worse than the pain, worse than the humiliation of your best friend holding you under the arms while you take a piss—the nightmares about the explosion, the creeping paranoia, those moments where he became so sure he was in danger again. Jongin had these recurring dreams where he was falling. He barely slept a few hours at a time. And again, after the Colombia job had gone south, and after jail, Taemin had been the one coaxing him back to sleep, completely without judgment every time he woke up panting with tears in his eyes, distracting him with his mouth and his hands until he was too overwhelmed to remember much of anything.

He's thinking about it now as he feels Taemin shift beside him. Jongin's half-asleep, arm wrapped protectively around Taemin's waist, his hand flat against Taemin's ribs. Taemin groans like he's waking up slowly, but Jongin's been feeling Taemin's heartbeat race for the past fifteen minutes and knows it's a nightmare. The role's reversed now, and Jongin's acutely aware of how much he needed Taemin in those panicked moments while he struggled to wake up enough to realize he wasn't in any danger.

"Shit," Taemin breathes, fully awake now. His hair is damp with sweat.

"You okay?"

Taemin tries to pass it off like he's up because he's in pain—and he probably is, on top of everything. Jongin doesn't force him to say anything otherwise.

"Do you need anything?"

Taemin sits up and scrubs at the perspiration on his face with the inside of his wrist. "Nah," he says thickly. "'m fine. Go back to sleep, sorry."

Jongin bumps the top of his head into Taemin's hip, then slithers halfway into his lap. "I'm awake. I've been awake. Do you need water? Do your stitches hurt? We could call Junmyeon—he said to make sure they didn't get infected—"

"I'm _fine_." Taemin laughs a little, soft, breathy. He pushes his fingers into the mop of Jongin's hair and lets his hand come to rest at the crown of Jongin's head, cradling it in his lap. "How about you? What's on your mind?" _Talk about something else; distract me until I've calmed down._

"Worried about Moonkyu," Jongin says, which is truthful enough, even if it's not the first thing he's thinking of right now. "He didn't leave word that the meeting was off."

"I'm sure Moonkyu is fine. If he's gone underground, he probably had a good reason. He seems like a cautious guy."

"He said—somebody's going to be outed soon, and now he's missing, and Baekhyun's asset is missing—and nobody's taking it seriously, even though it's real, it's happening, it happened to _me_ —"

Taemin cuts him off, hauling him up by the hair with his good hand; Jongin follows obediently, feeling the sharp prickling of pain at the roots and hoping Taemin doesn't make off with a handful. "Listen," Taemin says, his voice incredibly close in the dark. "If that's what happened, then you are not responsible. How were you supposed to know when and where? We don't have enough information yet."

"I've spent all this time trying not to think about it when I should've been out there, trying to get some answers—"

"Stop."

"And _you_ —you shouldn't be here, if they're after you."

Taemin sighs through his nose. "At least now I know for sure."

Jongin runs his palm over Taemin's thigh, feels the warmth of his skin right through the top sheet. "You know we've got to do something about it, right? _We_ have to. There's no one else who can do what we do."

Taemin's quiet, mulling this over.

"You can't try and fix this on your own, not when you're supposed to be in bed resting. You've got to let me help you. You have to let me take the lead this time."

"They know my face," he says reluctantly. "What can we do? They've been instructed to shoot me on sight."

"They don't know mine, though. You can walk me through this."

"You didn't even want to come to Seoul to help Baekhyun in the first place, and now you're trying to take on an entire cartel? Jongin—are you sure you want to do this?"

"One more," Jongin says. "For a good cause. Because nobody else can."

Taemin nuzzles his way into Jongin's space and kisses him, mouth closed, lips dry and chapped. He's not trembling, exactly, but there's something insecure about the way he exhales against Jongin's cheek, good hand sliding up Jongin's ribs. Shy, again. His breath rattles a little in Jongin's ear. He clutches at Jongin, keeps their bodies close together.

"Okay," Jongin whispers when Taemin pulls back and buries his face into Jongin's neck. "I'll take that as a yes."

☠☠☠

Baekhyun comes home at lunchtime the next day, dark circles under his eyes but a huge smile from ear to ear. They'd finally gotten in touch with the operative and figured out a way to swap out his equipment for a functional system that won't compromise his position. He'd made contact with his target and was lying low, waiting for further instructions. Best-case scenario all around, and Baekhyun takes a four-hour victory nap on the couch as a reward.

"See," Soojung says to Jongin when she arrives home, Jonghee in tow. "We told you it was going to be fine." 

Jonghee makes a beeline for Taemin, who's been sitting on the floor thumbing through Soojung's files. He sets the paperwork aside and greets her with an awkward one-armed hug. The discomfort is plain as day on Taemin's face when she touches his chest right where he's healing, but to his credit, he grits his teeth and schools his face into a neutral expression so he doesn't frighten her.

"I've got something to show you," Soojung says, breaking Jongin's focus. He turns.

"Moonkyu?

"Not yet. I do have this, though." She digs around in her bag and pulls out another manila file, redacted all to hell, criss-crossed with black bars that censor out huge paragraphs of text at a time. Like being handed a word puzzle. Fill in your own crime. Still, a familiar face peers back at him from the first page: Natalia, pulled from surveillance footage. "Looks like she's been doing some work overseas. Investment consulting, mostly—she's been talking about mining futures in Colombia. Gold mostly, some copper."

"What does that have to do with us? Why does she need an intelligence network?"

"I told you. She's not the boss, Jongin. She's working for someone. Think of her as… a location scout. The investment cover just gets her into the country with a plausible reason for being there, so she can do what she's really been sent to do. See here, these trips?" Soojung pulls out a sheet of paper with two columns on it. "The trips are always a week, minimum. And—" She hands the list to Jongin and retrieves a second from the bottom of the stack. "—they _always_ precede a foreign operative going missing in that country."

Jongin laughs nervously. A break—a real break, the first break they've had in years. And it's nothing, really, it leaves them no closer to who's actually pulling the strings, and it still doesn't tell them _why_ it's happening, but this. This is a pattern, something to hold onto. Finally. "Where is she now, then?" he asks. "If Moonkyu's right, her latest trip will tell us who's next."

"Tracking her right now. It's going to be really difficult, because she uses a bunch of aliases, but I programmed this picture into my computer and left it running. See if we get a hit on any major airport security footage. If she's using commercial flights, she has to come through Customs every time."

"You have access to that sort of thing?"

"Corporate security has its perks. The backdoor access I have to stuff NIS needs a warrant for—Baekhyun's so jealous." Soojung beams, smugly pleased with herself.

Jongin tunes into what Taemin's saying to Jonghee just then. "This one can be the look-out," he's murmuring, bowing over her to slip a plastic army man into her hand. "He's only got a mid-range gun, though. So you've got to be strategic about where to put him. Maybe behind the couch?"

Jonghee obediently tucks the figurine on the arm of the couch, next to where Baekhyun's still lying prone, face-down in the cushions and snoring. She comes galumphing back to Taemin, smile stretched from ear to ear. Taemin ruffles her hair.

"Taemin," Jongin says sharply. "You can't teach her things like that."

Taemin jerks his head up, a manic grin stretching generously across his mouth. He actually has the nerve to _wink_ at Jongin, like that makes it any better. "You can't start too early, Jongin."

Jongin looks at Soojung for some sort of support—an indication that Soojung's angry at the quality of childcare Taemin's currently providing, maybe, but she's smiling to herself as she shuffles through the rest of the file, clearly unbothered.

"Come play with us," Taemin encourages, waving a plastic pony with a fluorescent pink mane and tail in Jongin's direction. "C'mon. It'll be fun."

"We—should probably get going," Jongin says, eyebrows raised meaningfully. 

"You still want to go today?" Taemin asks, suddenly mirthless, tired. "Really?" Jonghee climbs on him and he puts his hand on her back to support her balance, but doesn't take his eyes off Jongin.

"As soon as possible, I figured." Jongin's stomach flips with guilt at the worry on Taemin's face. "Get it over with, right? If you're feeling okay."

"I am."

"Well, then," Jongin says. "Before I change my mind."

 

So without too much additional begging, Taemin takes him to meet Wonshik. They slip out of the house just after the sun dips below the horizon line, promising Soojung they'll call as soon as they're on the way back ("You're not my mother," Jongin reminds her when she tries to button up his jacket. She laughs and finishes what she's doing, anyway.) Jongdae's waiting there in the driveway like he always is, the reluctant chaperone. He's armed this time and makes a point of patting the holster inside his jacket so Jongin knows it's there.

"No. Hands off," he says, when Taemin starts to ask about it. "This one's registered to me. Like hell I'm letting you lose this one."

The car goes awkwardly silent. No progress on Taemin's police bulletin—Baekhyun's been keeping an eye on that, too—but it's still a sore subject between them. Jongdae flexes his fingers against the steering wheel and then squeezes the life out of it. Testy. Nervous.

"Sorry," he says after a moment, relaxing. He lets out a slow breath between his teeth. "I didn't—"

"It's okay," Taemin says good-naturedly. He even chuckles a little, because of course Taemin would find something funny where others would take offense. "I wouldn't let me handle it, either."

 

Wonshik's got warm, sleepy eyes like a Basset hound and a snub nose to match, his hair hidden behind a beanie. He peels it off to reveal his hair buzzed short, military-style, and drops the cap on the table. When he smiles at Jongin it's friendly, no hint of suspicion or distrust. He seems more like your friendly neighborhood soccer dad than a money launderer, which is probably part of the appeal. Nobody'd peg this guy as a professional criminal in a million years, not with his old, oversized Derrick Rose Chicago Bulls jersey like he's trying to relive his misspent youth. He claps Taemin on the shoulder and hugs him with one arm, minding the sling Jongin's forced on him again.

"Wasn't expecting you to call again so soon," Wonshik says, inclining his chin at Jongin in a more subdued _hello_ before they take their seats. "What's going on? Need to move some money from your New York account? I can do it—going to take a couple days if you want it clean, but for you, no problem."

Jongin is taken aback. "How do you know about that? We—left suddenly, I don't—"

Wonshik shrugs. "We've kept in touch. I don't normally take on international clients—I've got more business than I can handle here in the city, but for an old friend, I make exceptions."

"Somebody's got to keep an eye on our money," Taemin explains to Jongin. Under the table, away from Wonshik's gaze, he hooks his ankle around Jongin's and pulls it underneath his chair. "Especially since our ID isn't legit—it's easier when Wonshik handles things. He's in and out, no red flags, and our money's safe. He's an artist."

Wonshik seems genuinely pleased with the compliment. Jongin's still reeling a little bit, realizing that there are parts of Taemin's life on which he hasn't closed the door just yet. He'd asked for Taemin to keep him out of the business, but it hadn't occurred to him that an 'old associate' was a part of the new business. 

"I need you to introduce Jongin to the boss."

Wonshik wrinkles his nose. "Are you stupid? Taemin, they're sniffing around for you. They know you haven't left the city yet, and they're pretty sure you're still alive, because, well, you're _you_ —"

"I'm not going to be involved. They won't see me at all. You'll tell them he's a client of yours, interested in bringing them in on a Japanese deal."

Wonshik leans back, hands braced behind his head. "Japan? No, no, Taemin, you know they've been pissed about that for five years now. If you're back in town and suddenly someone's talking Tokyo, they're going to be suspicious. And then _I'm_ gonna get killed too, and no thanks. You're like a brother to me, but you're too crazy to die for."

"What do you think we should say? China?"

"Nah." Wonshik scratches his nose with the back of his hand, looking contemplative. "Triads are fucking messy. Don't wanna fall in with those snakes, they'll skin you alive if they find out."

"You say this like the Yakuza are the party guys," Jongin says, smiling weakly. "I'd lose a couple fingers either way. They're all bad people."

Wonshik's laugh comes in soft, panted _yuks_. It's sweet, a little gentle, belies the conversation they're having right now. "You're right, Jongin. That they are."

"New York?"

"Not a good idea. Don't want to use an ID from where you guys are actually living. Unless you're planning to relocate anytime soon. You don't want to put their guys on the ground in your neighborhood if things go wrong. And considering how crazy this plan is, you should count on it going wrong." He taps his chin. "Los Angeles, maybe. Let me make some calls, see who I know. See who's still this side of the grass."

"Perfect. Tomorrow?"

"Hold on a minute, Taemin, are you serious? I can't just snap my fingers, this shit takes time, you've got to be delicate about it—"

"Yes you can, Wonshik. I've seen you work. We've gotta get him in and out fast. There's—this isn't just me, they're after some friends, too. We need to stop them before somebody gets hurt."

"You mean somebody you care about, right?" Wonshik kind of grins, lopsided, a little scary. "I know you, Taemin. Somebody's going to bleed—and if you don't do it right and word gets back that I started this, that I know your guy or I knew what he was gonna do, I'm dead."

"It won't get back on you, I promise," Taemin says. "You have my word."

"It's going to cost you," Wonshik warns them, his mouth twisting into a frown. "The strings I'm going to have to pull to get him the backstory you're looking for, we're talking three, four grand US, easy."

"You've got the New York routing number. Do it."

Wonshik rises and goes to stand near the bathrooms where it's quieter, a cellphone pressed to his ear. Jongin swallows hard. No turning back now. _I know you, Taemin._ Wonshik's seen Taemin at his worst, at his scariest, and still he's comfortable enough to hug him, do him a massive favor like this. Wonshik knows exactly what's coming, but Jongin? Jongin can only imagine.

He opens his mouth, then closes it. Opens it again. "Four _thousand_ dollars? Do we have anywhere near that kind of money?" They're doing alright in New York, but alright isn't _great_ , it's not four thousand dollars to spare.

"We do. Well, Hong does," Taemin amends. "I have complete access to Allied's discretionary fund account."

"Hong?" _Wonshik's got access to a bank account with Hong's name on it? Taemin's given him access—to his boss's money?_ "Is he going to mind that you're just withdrawing this huge amount of—"

"This kind of thing is exactly what it's there for." Taemin puts his hand over Jongin's, warm and secure despite everything that's been going wrong around them. "You can back out if you want, Jongin. It's not safe, and I'd rather—" He clears his throat, his ears burning red with embarrassment. "I'd rather go home with you, than a body bag. You know? We can find another way, maybe—"

"There is no other way, and we both know it. I'd rather go home with you, too," Jongin says. "Which is why I _have_ to do this."

"I know," Taemin says softly. He looks so much like he wants to kiss Jongin right there in the middle of the bar, and if they were in New York he'd already be doing it, but then Wonshik's pulling his chair back out to sit down and talk terms, and the moment's gone.

☠☠☠

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been a while, but i'm back! thank you everyone for being so patient with me. it may be a similar length of time before the next update, but i promise i won't leave you hanging forever. as always, thank you so much for all the comments and kudos—you guys are the greatest ❤❤❤❤❤


	10. Chapter 10

☠☠☠

Junmyeon comes over to check on Taemin late that night, long after most of the others have gone to bed. He travels light, all of his medical supplies tucked into a small leather satchel he wears slung over his shoulder. He sets Taemin up on the couch with a banana bag as a ploy to keep him sitting still long enough to give him an examination.

"Baekhyun told me what you did to yourself," Junmyeon says, flashing a light into Taemin's eyes. "I knew you were going to get yourself into trouble, Taemin."

Taemin rolls his eyes. "Trouble's a relative term."

"Trouble follows you wherever you go." Junmyeon slips a thermometer into Taemin's mouth and holds a warning finger in his face to keep his mouth shut. "Any weakness? Appetite okay?"

"He hasn't eaten much," Jongin chimes in. "But he's been taking his antibiotics."

"Try taking them with a meal," Junmyeon says, pulling the thermometer free. "No fever."

"I told you, I feel fine," Taemin protests. "Good as new."

Junmyeon peels back the bandage on his chest then, revealing the row of fresh stitches on Taemin's chest. "Looks good," he says, looking up at Jongin, who's hovering nervously and biting the pad of his thumb. "Nice work." 

"I'm invincible, Doc. You know this."

"You're lucky it didn't hit your heart in the first place." Junmyeon pulls off his latex gloves with a loud snap. "You still need rest. Limited movement, no more running around the neighborhood, and stay away from guns, yeah?"

Taemin makes a sound like a petulant child being sent to bed without dessert. "But _Doc_ —"

"Sorry, kid. Those are the rules. Mandatory two weeks of taking it easy after you have a brush with death."

"I'm ready to go right now. Whose rules?" Taemin challenges. "Not mine."

"Mine," Jongin says firmly. "He's right, Taemin. I can take it from here."

Taemin catches at Jongin's fingers and squeezes them.

"You should listen to him," Junmyeon tells Taemin as he starts to repack his medical bag. "He might just save you from yourself."

 

After Junmyeon leaves, Jongin sits down with Baekhyun and fills him in on the evening's meeting with Wonshik. He's still wide-awake after his extended nap earlier that day, and he's eager to catch up with Jongin's plan even as it hurtles on at breakneck speed. They've done ops on the fly before, but this—this has real-world consequences, ones that could affect all of them before it's all over.

"You're sure this is what you want to do?" he asks after Jongin finishes outlining the plan. _Get in, entrap them, watch them hang themselves with their own rope. Exterminate from the inside out._

"I can't think of another way. Can you?"

"Shoot them all," Taemin chimes in from the other room, still tethered to his IV. Jongin looks at Baekhyun, who's barely containing his laughter.

"Stop it. Don't encourage him. Christ, hyung, you're as bad as he is."

"I wish," Baekhyun admits, a wistful look in his eyes. "It seems like he has all the fun."

☠☠☠

Three AM. Jongin slowly becomes aware of the hand down his briefs, Taemin's wandering fingers skimming the crease of his groin, touches too light, teasing. "Jongin," Taemin whispers into Jongin's hairline. "Wake up." To punctuate the thought, he pushes his hips forward, the ridge of his clothed erection pressing rock hard into the small of Jongin's back.

Jongin groans. He's missed this. For a minute he thinks they're back at home in New York, that he's waking up from the tail end of a terrible nightmare. "We can't," he mutters into his pillow, when he doesn't hear the tell-tale sirens outside and realizes he's not dreaming, after all. "You're going to pull your stitches out again."

Taemin starts kissing his neck anyway, sucking a bruise right in the spot where he knows from experience Jongin's most sensitive. Jongin feels his dick fatten up, stiffening to attention in Taemin's palm and rolls over. He has every intention of telling Taemin to stop, but Taemin redirects his mouth to Jongin's, greedy and begging for more, and Jongin is powerless. He's so easy when it's Taemin.

Taemin's without his usual finesse. He keeps pawing at Jongin's underwear almost like he means to push it down and jerk him off, but he can't quite get his coordination to manage it. They've started to rut against each other, but the friction's not enough to finish anything. The bed creaks ominously. Everything sounds so much louder this early in the morning, especially when they're not at home.

Jongin pulls back enough to steady himself and kisses Taemin's forehead. "Okay, okay," he says. "Easy. Don't wake everyone up."

Taemin leans forward again, eagerly chasing Jongin's mouth. Jongin pushes a finger across his lips and shakes his head. Taemin whines, full-volume.

"I need to get off," he whispers, his voice wrecked already. "I need you. Just—your hand. Something, anything, please." Jongin's never seen Taemin this desperate for it, ever. It's making _him_ feel a little wild with it, truth be told, but there's that little voice of reason in the back of his head: _they are not alone in this house._

"Just hold on a second, okay?" he promises. "I will, okay, just let me—hold on." He pulls the duvet from the bed and tosses it on the floor, then the pillows. Taemin watches him propped up on one elbow, his eyes dark and blazing, hand reaching out across the mattress, trying to catch at Jongin and reel him back in.

"What are you—"

"Come here," Jongin instructs, clambering off the bed. Taemin gets it now. He winds his arms around Jongin's neck and allows himself to be lifted—slowly, gently, even as he starts kissing up Jongin's throat again. Jongin eases him down onto the nest of pillows he'd made on the floor, which doesn't creak every time Taemin arches his back and whimpers.

Jongin kisses him and peels away, stumbles across the room to Taemin's backpack. It hasn't been opened since Jongdae brought it back from the safe house. He finds the lube at the bottom, underneath a fistful of balled-up dirty socks.

"Are you coming back?" Taemin demands at a volume too loud for this hour, eyes half-lidded and heavy. Jongin shushes him again, hoping Baekhyun and Soojung are heavy sleepers. 

"You need to stay still," Jongin says, crawling up on his knees. "And shut up."

He makes a real mess of it, dribbles of lube winding down his wrist as he pushes into Taemin, nuzzling his face into the seam of Taemin's leg. Taemin keeps giggling into his knuckles at nothing in particular, running his fingers through Jongin's hair so slowly that Jongin could fall asleep like this, except _he's_ still hard, too, thanks to the unceremonious way Taemin'd woken him up, begging for it.

He's jolted back to the present by Taemin yanking on his hair. He yelps, taken by surprise, and Taemin doesn't miss the opportunity to shush _him_ , which just makes Jongin laugh. He sits back up, hand shining, and slicks himself up with what's left on his hands. Taemin goes quiet then, shimmying his body closer to Jongin, a hand braced on Jongin's lower back, pulling him near.

Jongin coaxes Taemin's legs apart and kisses his chin, letting Taemin breathe shakily into his mouth as Jongin lines himself up. He pushes in and holds himself there, buried deep, waiting as Taemin's body spreads to allow him inside. After a moment, Taemin clenches experimentally, quietly delighting in the way Jongin's eyes roll back in his head. Still, he doesn't take the bait and start fucking Taemin into the floor right away. He's cognizant of how delicate Taemin is right now (although he'd probably break the arm of anyone foolish enough to call him that out loud). He doesn't want to hurt him any further. 

He takes his time, nestling his body in the notch between Taemin's thighs. Taemin is sprawled out beautifully underneath him, his faced flushed and sweaty, his chest heaving. Jongin's gaze keeps falling to the white square of bandage rising and falling with Taemin's ribcage. 

"You okay?" Jongin asks, gingerly pressing his palm to Taemin's sternum. He's careful not to touch the bandage. Taemin nods, his eyes still screwed shut, and Jongin continues. "That doesn't hurt? You'll tell me if I'm hurting you?"

"I love you," Taemin murmurs instead, raking the hair back from Jongin's face. Goosebumps rise on Jongin's arms at those words. Even though he knows it's true, that it's been true since Thailand, Taemin barely ever says it. Jongin can count on one hand the number of times when Taemin's actually said it out loud—usually when he's half-drunk and hazy and forgets himself. He usually lets his feelings be known in other ways. He's more concerned with showing it—touching Jongin, keeping him within arm's reach, providing tactical support. Taemin can do things—he can rub Jongin's back, he can soothe away a nightmare, he can fly halfway around the world and put himself in danger just to make sure Jongin's not alone. Given his upbringing, it's understandable that Taemin's never been one to talk about his feelings. He's never been allowed to let them matter. This is more vulnerable than Jongin's ever seen him, even after he'd been shot.

Jongin takes the lean blade of Taemin's jaw into his palm and kisses him, their mouths crushed together so tightly that Taemin gasps for air and clutches at the sensitive points of Jongin's scalp before he relaxes into it.

"Me too," Jongin says after a moment. Taemin still doesn't open his eyes, but there's a soft smile on his lips.

They've tried this a handful of times. Usually Taemin's too impatient to let Jongin finish inside of him, gives in to his base instinct and wrestles Jongin onto the mattress. But this time—this time, he keeps his eyes half-lidded and locked on Jongin's wide gaze, moaning open-mouthed every time Jongin thrusts into him, his hand stroking down Jongin's cheek, whispering, _"yeah, oh yeah, like that,"_ almost like he needs this more than anything, a reminder that he's still here and he's alright, that Jongin will take care of him, too, that Jongin won't go away again.

☠☠☠

Sunrise comes too soon the next morning, but Jongin's awake with the early light anyway. There's too much to do today to waste time lying around, especially if he's meeting the boss this afternoon.

They'd ended up sleeping on the floor. After everything, it had been easier to just wrap up in the comforter, chest to chest, and sleep. Jongin slips out tentatively, trying not to wake Taemin as he scrounges on the floor for his underwear. Taemin curls into the warmth left by Jongin's absence and smiles in his sleep. Jongin gets dressed and impulsively steals a kiss on his way out. His cheeks feel hot, thinking of Taemin whispering _I love you_ and something pleasant curls in his gut.

Soojung's up and puttering around the kitchen, dressed in her work clothes, but her hair still undone and in waves around her shoulders. She looks up when Jongin comes in.

"Morning. Taemin still asleep?"

"Mmm," Jongin hums, sleepily knuckling gunk out of the corners of his eyes as he slides into a seat at the table. He feels more content than he has in days.

"Late night last night?" she asks, the picture of innocence. 

Jongin flushes guiltily when he sees the subtle arch of her eyebrow, the twitch at the corner of her mouth she's trying desperately to suppress before she turns around to tend to the kettle.

"It's okay," she says. "It was funny. He's a loud one, isn't he? When he's not—you know."

Jongin groans and puts his head in his hands. "I'm sorry."

"I've been a light sleeper ever since we had Jonghee. Don't worry. Baekhyun slept through the whole thing." She puts a hand on his shoulder. "At least this means he's feeling better?"

"Oh, my god," Jongin says, his humiliation complete, and drops his forehead against the edge of the table.

☠☠☠

"You're crazy, you know," Wonshik says when Jongin arrives at their previously agreed-upon spot. He's going to walk Jongin into Ssang Yong Pa's headquarters—some grungy café on the outskirts of Taemin's old neighborhood. "Taking on Ssang Yong Pa all by yourself."

"Not _all_ by myself," Jongin argues weakly, although the thought has crossed his mind. He's walking into a known criminal organization, one with a violent reputation, one that tried to kill Taemin, one that's intimidating his best friend—and he's basically all by himself here. Still, setting the personal connections aside, it's no riskier than any other mission he'd taken while he was working for the NIS. At least now, he's not reporting back to anyone but his own team. Accountable to no one but himself.

"Mmm." Wonshik regards him for a moment with a twinkle in his eye. "I can see why Taemin likes you so much. You're both unhinged."

Wonshik gives him an easy backstory to memorize. After the highly-publicized trial, he's far too recognizable to go undercover anymore, so he's playing himself: Kim Jongin, disgraced NIS operative. They're using the lies in the newspaper, the ones that said he was selling state secrets on the black market—they're making him sound as bad as the falsified reports did. They're just inserting Wonshik into the story, giving him a plausible explanation for knowing Jongin. He's supposed to be an old customer of Wonshik's, newly-freed from prison, ready for revenge. "I'm vouching for you," he warns. "I'll be there for the initial meeting, but who knows how it's going to go. And I'm sorry, if things go south, I'm out of there, with or without you."

"Got it," Jongin says grimly, desperately hoping it doesn't come to that. He's got a gun in his holster but he doesn't want to use it if there's any way to avoid it. "Same to you."

"I can handle that," Wonshik says. His smile shows all of his teeth at once.

☠☠☠

Even if Jongin hadn't read the file on Ssang Yong Pa cover to cover, he'd still be able to pick the boss out of a crowded room just by the look of him. _Wolf,_ they all call him, although Jongin knows he was born Nam Sangho. His face is scarred from knife fights during his youth that left his right eye milky-white and unseeing. He sits alone at a table at the back of the room, facing the door as he stirs a packet of sweetener into his coffee and sucks obscenely at the wooden stick.

Wonshik waits patiently at the door even though the tables are mostly empty. Wolf speaks to an associate in a hushed voice and then gestures for them to come over. His index finger is cut off at the middle knuckle. Jongin resists the urge to curl his own hands into his pockets, protecting his own fingers from harm.

"Wonshik. You bring me this?" Wolf flings a hand in Jongin's direction. "I know who this scum is. He was on the news. You're bringing me a government worker?" 

The associate's inching up behind Wonshik, trying to get an arm around his neck before Wonshik notices, but Jongin's much faster. He's got the associate disarmed and in a headlock, the blade of his confiscated knife nicking at his jugular, daring him to make another move.

"You think I still work for the NIS? What year is it in your world, old man?" Jongin asks, feeling a coldness settle in his veins, a familiarity that comes with being someone else for a while. "I'm here about Lee Taemin."

Wolf watches him for a moment, expression blank. He smiles, revealing some truly rotten teeth, and gestures for Jongin to sit down. "Alright, Traitor," he says. "Don't get blood on the floors. They've just been cleaned."

Jongin shoves the associate away and watches him stumble into the kitchen to get away from him. Wonshik's still standing there, arms folded across his chest.

"I don't like what I've been accused of," he says, pulling the brim of his hat down with a disgruntled frown. "How far do we go back, Wolf? How many favors have you asked for over the years? Have I ever pulled a knife on you?"

"Wonshik. My apologies." Wolf holds up his hands and Jongin sees he's missing more than a few fingertips. "You call me up and mention Taemin and I think, what's your angle? You know we're looking for him. You've heard he's back from the dead."

"Which is why I called you. Jongin's looking for him, too. I thought this was an advantageous situation for both of you, but I guess I was wrong."

Wolf turns to Jongin with renewed interest. "Is that so." He points at the seat again and looks back up at Wonshik. "That's enough, Wonshik. We can take it from here."

Wonshik glances at Jongin for a moment and nods as if to say, _you're on your own, now_ —and then he's gone. Jongin turns the chair around and sits straddling it, elbows resting against the back as he watches Wolf pick his teeth with the wooden coffee stirrer.

"So," Wolf says after a long silence. "We're both looking for Lee Taemin."

"Yes."

"And you thought you'd give me a call?"

"I heard he was back in Seoul. Somebody shot at him. I thought of you."

"You thought of me?"

"Seems like the police did, too. They've been in here, haven't they? Questioning you? Interfering with your business, probably."

Wolf silences him with another brusque wave. "I'm going to need you to explain why you have any business whatsoever with Lee Taemin, and I'm going to need you to do it in the next thirty seconds, or I'm going to let Donghyun come back and take another shot at you."

"I heard you wanted him dead. And so do I."

"Is that so," Wolf says again, leaning back in his chair. "Seems extreme."

"He ruined my life."

This accusation seems to be the first surprising thing Wolf's heard during this entire exchange. His eyebrows lift. "How did our Taemin do a thing like that, Traitor?"

"We met in Thailand," Jongin says. "He figured out that I wasn't who I said I was. He—I trusted him. And then he disappeared."

"Taemin disappeared a year before you were discovered. Care to explain that?"

"He was probably looking for the highest bidder." Jongin shrugs. "You think I know what's going on in his head? He's your man, not mine."

"Why didn't he just come to me? I would have handled you. He knew I didn't like you government types dropping in unannounced."

"You weren't giving him what he wanted. Sending him off to live in the jungle? Run your arms shipments like an errand boy? He wanted his own empire."

"He wasn't ready."

"Sounds like he is now."

Wolf narrows his eyes. "Why were you in Thailand? Government business? What kind of government business puts you inside one of my camps unless you're there to spy on _my_ operations."

"Nothing to do with you. You're not the only show in town. I was passing through on my way to Bangkok, conducting business in that area of the world—"

"What business?"

Jongin levels a cold stare at Wolf for interrupting him. "We all have our secrets," he says. "It's irrelevant."

"I'm not so sure it is," Wolf counters. "Convenient, isn't it, that our Taemin goes off the grid right after he figures you out?"

"From where I stand, it's pretty fucking inconvenient. I liked my job."

"You're a traitor," Wolf says.

"You're a criminal," Jongin shoots back. "What's your point? Are you not comfortable with what you have? Should I be working with the cops instead? I know they're just as motivated."

Wolf considers this with a sneer. "So what are you asking from me?"

"I want to help find him. I want—I just want ten minutes with him. And then he's all yours."

"And why would I help you? What's in it for me?"

"I know what happened with Tokyo. I know you want answers from him, and I know he needs to be punished. I'm going to keep looking for him whether you help me or not. But I'm good at what I do, and if I find him without you, well—I'm not sharing. And then where will you be?"

"What makes you think he'd come out of hiding for you? Who are you, Kim Jongin? I _raised_ him," Wolf thunders, banging his fist on the table. "What makes you think I need you for _anything_?"

"Because he didn't come to you. He clearly had a better offer than what you were willing to give him," Jongin says, taking Wolf's coffee cup from underneath him and taking a defiant sip from the clean side of the rim. "I know you haven't found him yet. That's how I know you need me and my contacts."

Wolf watches him for a moment, clearly amused by Jongin's boldness. "Fine," he says. "If you think you can lure him out, then maybe we can use you."

☠☠☠

Wolf dismisses him after that.

"How do I get in touch with you?" Jongin asks. Donghyun appears, seemingly out of thin air, and hands him a burner phone.

"That rings, you answer it by the third ring. I don't care what you're doing. I don't care if you're in the shower or taking a shit, that phones goes with you everywhere."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"You don't call us. We'll call you."

"And if I find Taemin without you? What should I do with him?"

Wolf laughs his gravelly, sinister laugh, big globules of saliva collecting at the corners of his cracked lips. "You won't," he says. "I taught him better than that."

After that, Jongin goes back to the safe house, because he doesn't know if Ssang Yong Pa is having him tailed, and he doesn't want to put the others in danger. He's not sure if they put a tracking device in the burner phone, but he'd be stupid to go anywhere near Baekhyun's house when he'd fought so hard to look like a real traitor in front of Wolf. He'd known going into this that he was going to be on his own for a while, until the final stage of the plan was set in motion, but he still feels strangely empty as he's walking up the gravel path, stones crunching under his shoes.

He pushes open the door and nearly has a heart attack when he sees Taemin sitting cross-legged on the mattress, flipping through an old NIS training manual for an apparent lack of anything better to do.

"What are you doing here?" Jongin demands when he catches his breath. "You're supposed to be back at Baekhyun's getting some _rest_ like Junmyeon told you."

"Jongdae's letting me do the debriefing."

Jongin frowns and slips off his shoes. "They could be watching this place, Taemin. You're not safe here."

"It'll be fine," Taemin says easily. "Don't worry so much."

"The last time you said that to me, you had a bullet in your chest."

Taemin grins beatifically. "And everything worked out, didn't it?"

Jongin's at a loss for words. Taemin's insane. Certifiable. And Jongin loves him, so maybe Wonshik's right and maybe he's a little bit crazy, too.

Taemin pulls out a small satchel and holds it up. "Baekhyun sent me with supplies for you. We've got a listening device, if you think you can get away with a wire—"

"—after what I saw today, probably not—"

"—that's what I told him, so we've got some other options. I tried to get Wonshik to plant a bug in the café, but he wouldn't go for it."

"He's already risking his neck for me, Taemin. Wolf's guy nearly pulled a knife on him."

"Exactly. So what's one more thing in the name of friendship?" Taemin reasons, shaking the satchel so that the contents inside rattle loudly. "Come see."

Jongin pinches the bridge of his nose. He's exhausted, but if Taemin's his point of contact, then Taemin needs to be filled in on the day's progress. Even if Taemin _should_ be back in bed, recuperating. He sits, pulling Wolf's phone from his pocket.

"Are they tracking me with this? Probably, right?"

"Not a problem," Taemin says, businesslike, pulling yet another spare phone out of the satchel. "We can forward the calls to this one. Jongdae gave me a ton of these things."

Jongin obediently hands it over and watches Taemin program the phone. "They're supposed to text me tomorrow with a time and place to meet up."

"So I hear you're hunting me because I ruined your life," Taemin says, tipping his head as he works. His hair falls in his eyes. He looks so pleased, even as Jongin tries to elbow him. "Wonshik already told me how he was going to introduce you. It's fine. It's funny."

"When did you talk to him?"

"Right after he left you. He said you handled yourself like a pro." Taemin beams proudly. "Wish I could've seen you take down Donghyun. I've never actually seen you work, you know. All this time and we've never worked together."

"I _am_ a pro."

"Technically, you aren't anymore. You _were_. But it's like riding a bicycle, right? You missed it." He hands Jongin the new phone. "There, all done."

Something like that. Jongin looks up at Taemin where he's perched on the mattress. He's only a foot or so taller than Jongin like this, but his face is far enough away that Jongin has to settle for kissing his kneecap instead of his mouth. Taemin ruffles his hair and continues.

"So you infiltrated without a hitch."

"I'm pretty sure he's going to kill me if I don't help produce results, and fast, but yeah, he bought it."

"Excellent."

"Yeah, I love having a gun to my head."

"You're only in trouble if the figurative gun turns into a literal one, and it won't get to that point." Taemin yawns, stifling it with the back of his hand.

"So, has Jongdae figured out what I should be looking for? There's no way I'll be able to gather enough evidence to get them off the streets before they get sick of me."

Taemin seems not to hear Jongin's question, or if he does, he's ignoring it. He crawls up the mattress and burrows under the sheets until his head's the only thing poking out. "Come here," he says. "It's cold."

Jongin sighs. "Taemin—"

"I'm cold," Taemin repeats, and holds open the edge of the covers as an invitation. "We can finish talking about it when I'm warm."

"This is not how Jongdae handles debriefing sessions," Jongin says, laughing, but he crawls in anyway. "Can we be serious for five minutes? I really need to know."

Taemin appears to contemplate it. "Fine, fine," he says when Jongin starts pressing his icy cold fingers against Taemin's warm stomach. "Stop it. Ow. You're freezing. Five minutes is a very long time." And then, "Okay. Sorry. Shoot."

"I'm worried about this working," Jongin says quickly, like the five minutes is an actual deadline. "I don't think they're going to stop coming after you until they know you're dead, and I think they're going to keep harassing Chanyeol now that they believe there's a connection there."

Taemin nods at everything Jongin's saying. "I agree."

"So—what, then? Does Jongdae have a solution?"

"No, but I do." He won't meet Jongin's eyes as he says this. "You're really not going to like this at all."

With that tone of voice, Jongin's _sure_ he's not. "Is anyone going to get hurt?" he asks. He can't handle another middle of the night trip to see Junmyeon under any circumstances.

"Nobody you care about."

"That doesn't make me feel much better, you know," Jongin says, pushing the hair out of Taemin's face with his fingertips. "Why can't you just stay at Baekhyun's until Junmyeon gives you the all-clear to go home?"

"I'm not going back to New York without you. And we've got things to do first."

"Nothing I can do to change your mind?"

Taemin leans in and kisses Jongin's nose, then his chin, and down—his jaw, the lobe of his ear, humming his disagreement as he goes.

Jongin shivers, hand braced on Taemin's shoulder. "Didn't think so."

"Chanyeol's probably not going to like it either," Taemin confesses, his face still buried in Jongin's neck. "Jongdae agrees with me—it's the only way, but… it's going to take some time."

That sounds even worse. "Why?" Jongin asks, almost afraid to know the answer. "What's the plan?"

"Do you really want to know?

No. "Yeah, I do. No secrets, no surprises."

"It's no secret that Ssang Yong Pa owns half of the police force. That's why they haven't done anything about Chanyeol's loan shark—they're being paid off to look the other way. So, we have to do something so big that the dirty cops can't cover it up."

"What do you mean by big?"

Taemin mimes an explosion with his hands. Jongin's stomach curdles unpleasantly with the thought of it—Chanyeol's pride and joy, his business, just _gone_ , razed to the ground.

"There's _no way_ Chanyeol will let you blow up his restaurant, Taemin, no way. It was his dad's—"

"—Jongdae's already got his sister on our side—"

"—you called _Yura_? Jesus, Taemin, she's pregnant, she can't be involved in this. Chanyeol's going to kill you."

"He'll listen to her," Taemin says. "She understands the risks, but she wants to make sure he's safe. And this is how we keep him safe. It's the only way."

"He's going to know you're manipulating him."

"So what?" Taemin shrugs. "If we pull this off, he'll be able to claim insurance and rebuild everything."

"It won't be the same. And he _lives_ above that restaurant. What's he supposed to do then? And what if you don't pull it off?"

"Well, we'll be dead, so it won't matter all that much."

"God. Now I wish you'd lied to me." Jongin closes his eyes. 

Taemin puts his hand on Jongin's hip and squeezes encouragingly. "We're _going_ to pull it off. You just need to get them there at a certain time, and we'll make sure they're all caught red-handed." He kicks out at the satchel. "Jongdae sent me with some burner phones. If you can get their fingerprints on them, find a way to get them back to us without contaminating them. We'll use the phones to trigger the explosion."

Jongin lies back against the pillows and sighs. "I don't know…"

"I do. Trust me."

"I do," Jongin says quietly. "I do trust you."

He's not sure how they get from that conversation to fooling around again, but before he knows it he's under the covers, Taemin's underwear keeping his knees bound together as Jongin sucks him off. He hadn't planned on this—hadn't planned on last night, either—but since the shooting, Taemin's been needier for physical affection than usual, and Jongin feels better with each low moan that comes punching out of Taemin's lungs, like it's the only way to regain any sense of normalcy in all this chaos.

Taemin's drowsy and pliant after he comes, and Jongin doesn't even need reciprocity when he pokes his head out from under the duvet and sees that fond smile playing on Taemin's lips. He lets Taemin cuddle up to him, still bare underneath the sheets, cooling sweat sticking their chests together.

"This mattress sucks," Taemin complains, wriggling to find a comfortable position.

"You're complaining about a mattress when you spent years living in a tent and sleeping on the ground."

Taemin wrinkles his nose. "Look. Just because I've grown accustomed to certain things doesn't mean I've lost my edge."

Jongin laughs long and hard at that, and they fall into a comfortable silence.

"Not that I don't want you to stay, but… are you staying?" Jongin asks after a moment. "Is it a good idea for you to be here all night?"

Taemin makes a sleepy noise and huddles closer to him. "You're kicking me out?"

"I didn't say that. You can stay." He thumbs at Taemin's eyebrows. "You know I'm coming back though, right? I'll be okay?"

"…I know," Taemin says after a long pause. "No. Yes." Sleep-dumb, his voice slowing. "What."

"I hope you took your antibiotics," Jongin says instead, burying his face into Taemin's hair. "How does it feel today?"

"Are you going to keep talking to me? Am I supposed to respond? Because…"

"No." Jongin laughs and kisses his forehead. "Asshole. Go to sleep." He settles back and lies there in the dark, arm slung around Taemin to keep him close, listening for the sound of an approach outside. There's nothing at this hour, not even cars on the road.

 

He's nearly asleep when a muffled ringtone startles him alert. He sits up, wondering— _Wolf?_ —but it's coming from Taemin's jeans.

"Taemin?"

"Nnn."

"Your phone's ringing. Is it—is it Jongdae?"

"Nnn."

Jongin fumbles with Taemin's pockets, trying to find the burner phone that Jongdae'd given him. He extracts it carefully, and, upon seeing the unfamiliar number across the display, looks back at Taemin.

"I don't recognize the number. Is it Wonshik? At this hour?"

Taemin flaps his hand a few times, frowning, and then goes limp again. Hesitantly, Jongin answers the phone.

"Uh. Hello?"

"Taemin?" a deep voice intones. Deeper than Wonshik's. Jongin can't quite place it. 

"Uh. No—"

The call ends abruptly. He stares at the display for a full minute, watching the call time blink on the screen a few times before it goes dark. He looks back over at Taemin, still fast asleep, and wonders what else he's withholding from Jongin in the name of keeping him safe.

☠☠☠


	11. Chapter 11

☠☠☠

He nearly leaves right then. His phone is in his hand and Jongdae's number is already pulled up from his call history, but something stops him. He's been back home a week and he's falling back into bad habits, his new instincts flying in the face of years of training, undoing it all. He'd be dead, probably, if he'd hesitated like this before. The doorknob's twisted in one hand like that zipper on the tent, and Taemin's fast asleep like he had been five years ago.

But things have changed considerably since then. He can't be this version of himself anymore.

He's too restless to sleep so he sits by the door instead, hugging his knees to his chest, Taemin's phone sitting on the floor next to his feet. It's bitterly cold out tonight, and it sounds like a storm is passing through, the first of the season. Taemin's huddled underneath the blankets, his breathing deep and even. Jongin shivers with each gust of wind that rattles through the corridor outside, fingers frozen in their grip around his shins. 

That voice. 

It's Hong, he knows it now. He's convinced himself of it. He's very, very sure. And who else could it have been, calling Taemin. Hong's probably noticed by now that there's been a huge withdrawal from the discretionary fund and he must want to know what happened to it and when can he expect every cent of it back. 

It's noon in New York right now. Jongin wonders if it's snowing there, too.

Taemin moves to Jongin in his sleep and opens his eyes when he nearly rolls off the mattress instead. "Hey. It's freezing," Taemin murmurs sleepily, hand patting the comforter until it comes to rest against the floor. 

"Hong called for you," Jongin says, and the startled, wide-awake expression on Taemin's face confirms any lingering suspicions. "You wouldn't wake up."

"Did he say anything?"

"He hung up."

Taemin purses his lips thoughtfully. "Let me call him back." He shifts as though he's going to sit up and then appears to think better of it when a particularly strong wind smacks the windowpane with snowy abandon. "Phone?"

Jongin holds the phone just out of Taemin's reach. "Can we talk first?"

"Talk?"

"You've got to tell me everything," Jongin says sternly. "Even if you think it's something I don't want to hear. I need to know what you're doing. I want to help."

"You asked me to keep you out of it," Taemin says reasonably, pulling the comforter over his shoulders. "I've got it under control."

Jongin doesn't need to see the zippered wound healing on Taemin's chest to remember precisely how frighteningly precarious this whole ordeal has been so far. Certainly nothing resembling the calm and order that Jongin's become familiar with over the past year. "You're saying this—this is control? Hong's calling us in the middle of the night and hanging up without saying anything. How did he even get that number? It's supposed to be a secure line, Taemin—"

"Wonshik's been in touch with him. Jongin, you think we just get up in the middle of the night and leave the country without telling anyone? We have bills, neighbors—my _job_ —people would ask questions. We would be missed. He's taken care of all of that."

"When did you call him?"

"After I left you at the airport. He got me into the country clean. Obviously, I fell off the grid after _this_ ," he touches his chest sheepishly, "but Wonshik called him and brought him up to speed."

"How does Wonshik know him?" Again, Jongin feels that sick punch of realization furling his stomach. He knew Wonshik had the banking information, and in retrospect it seems naive to think that his familiarity would stop there.

"You have no idea what I do, do you?"

Of course. Vinyl lettering on the glass pane of his office door: _TIM LEE._ "You're a securities consultant. Intelligence and information—"

"No, that's my title. I mean what I _really_ do every day." Taemin smiles despite the gravity of the discussion. "Come on, Jongin. You haven't forgotten. You know what that means."

"I knew," Jongin says crossly. "I knew you weren't sitting in an office all day playing games on your computer, but—Taemin. You don't tell me anything."

"Did you really want to know?"

"The important things, yes. This is important."

"Okay. I'm sorry."

"I need to know everything this time. So tell me."

"There's not much to tell." Taemin chooses his words very carefully instead of getting straight to the point like he usually does. "He's in the business of making sure conflict doesn't arise unless he wants it to."

Jongin can read between the lines, though: "He's a mercenary. Christ, Taemin, you're working—you're doing intelligence for a mercenary?"

"I wouldn't call him a _mercenary_ , per se… he's more of a Robin Hood figure. Give me a little bit of credit."

"Robin Hood? Taemin…"

"He's usually trying to _avoid_ that type of thing."

"How do you know?"

"I know."

Jongin stays silent for a long while as he struggles to process what he's just been told. There's a part of him that has always known that Taemin wasn't just a body behind a desk, but— "This is… this complicates things."

"It doesn't," Taemin says honestly. "He fronted some cash and put in a good word for you so you could infiltrate Ssang Yong Pa, but he's just helping me."

"You're hurt, you're in no condition to be running around the city even if Ssang Yong Pa _wasn't_ out to get you. I need to help you." 

"No," Taemin says. "Your mind needs to be on Wolf. Chanyeol's thing is more urgent. Hong and I can handle this, especially if Soojung will share everything with us. Hong's got a contact here that I'm supposed to meet with—says he knows about Natalia—" 

"Natalia? What did you tell him?"

"I didn't need to tell him anything. He's been looking into what happened to you ever since… you went inside."

"He knows?" Jongin feels the blood drain from his face at the discovery that the privacy he'd tried to maintain since moving to New York never really existed in the first place. He's been intensely private since his move to New York. He's been in the same room as Hong a handful of times, but always under the pretense of being Taemin's friend from school. It all slots into place, the thing he'd been too blind to see: if Hong knows who Taemin was, then Hong knows who Jongin is, too. He's been humoring Jongin this whole time, knowing the truth but accepting the lie.

"I should have told you," Taemin says, steadying him with a single finger on his chin. "I meant to. But you didn't see how freaked out you were—you showed up out of nowhere and didn't want to talk about it, and I didn't want you to disappear again."

Taemin puts words to the feelings Jongin's been having for so long. That he'd been gone a lot longer than three years, that it took a long time to fully return to himself. That there was still something missing—this part of him, searching for answers. He wouldn't be fully complete until he knew for certain what had happened to send him down this path.

"I won't push you," Taemin's saying. "You talk when you want, and that's fine. But I didn't want to let the trail get cold in the meantime."

It hits Jongin: Taemin might act like everything's a joke, but in his own way, he's been quietly worrying this whole time. Jongin doesn't pull away when Taemin sits up and peers at him, face close and searching for a tell in Jongin's expression, something to let him know that this will all be forgiven. 

Jongin clears his throat. "Is there anything else?"

"No."

"No?"

"Not that I can think of," Taemin says, which isn't as comforting as he probably means for it to be. The muted, grey streetlight from the window casts strange shadows over Taemin's face.

Jongin sinks back into the blankets, feeling woozy. His fingertips have gone numb and his brain's racing a mile a minute trying to figure out _what to do_ with this new information. How can he use it? How are they going to get out of this one? What is he even going to begin to tell Jongdae, and Baekhyun—and Soojung—

The phone rings. Taemin glances at it, then back at Jongin. His eyes are calm. "It's him. Let me get that."

Jongin stares up at the ceiling, rubbing his temples and listening to one half of the stilted conversation as Taemin explains to Hong what had happened earlier. Taemin moves to sit next to him, his hand soft on Jongin's stomach, playing with the wrinkles in his shirt, twisting them between his fingertips, then stroking them away. "Hey," he mouths when Jongin finally looks up and catches him staring. "Sorry."

Jongin lifts his chin in a silent question: _what's going on?_

"Yes, he's still here. I'm putting you on speaker phone so I don't have to repeat this to him later," Taemin warns, holding up a finger, and then Hong's voice booms to life in the tiny room.

"Hello, Jongin. I trust you're well?"

"Uh. Yes. Hi," Jongin says. "Mr Hong."

Taemin apologizes with his hands, walking his fingers down Jongin's wrist. Jongin turns his palm up to catch hold, his eyes closed. Taemin's an idiot but at least he knows it. He's reckless, and impulsive, and brilliant and independent, which Jongin loves, but Jongin has also come to learn the downside to all these qualities. Jongin can't bring himself to be angry with Taemin when he knows he's just doing what he's been taught to survive. 

"Forgive me for the surprise earlier. I didn't realize it was you."

"Me neither. Thought it was you, I mean—I didn't know—"

"Any news?" Taemin cuts in. "You called, so I'm assuming something happened."

"He lost her."

"Excuse me? Lost her? How? Where?"

"Lost her somewhere near the Sino-Russian border. We believe she knew she was being followed. She walked into a crowd of tourists and disappeared. Her movements didn't follow her usual patterns. She didn't go back to her safe house, so she must have had her suspicions that she'd been compromised."

"Where did she go?"

"Her aliases haven't appeared on any flight manifests back to Colombia. It could be a dark flight, of course, but there are ways of getting those names. Nothing yet." He must sense the dismayed face Taemin's pulling. "We'll find her. We're closing in. She knows it, too. She _will_ make a mistake if we keep forcing her hand like this."

"And then?" Jongin asks. "What does that do for us? She's not the boss."

"No, she's not. She's just a soldier."

"How do we know they won't sacrifice her to protect their goals?"

"We don't. But any information we can extract from her will be more information than we had before."

 

Taemin makes arrangements to meet with Hong's informant the following afternoon and hangs up. The silence that hangs in the room between them is awful for half a second before Jongin makes a big show of yawning and patting the pillow next to him. 

"It's late," he says. "Lie down."

Taemin eases onto his elbows, still half-seated, a contemplative look on his face. "This isn't how I expected tonight to go," he admits, disheveling his already-tousled hair with an impatient hand. "I didn't want to spring it on you like that."

"How did you end up working for Hong?" Jongin asks. The hard line of Taemin's shoulders breaks into a hunch.

"I've known Hong a long time. Longer than you."

"Was he Ssang Yong Pa?"

"No. Hong's… his own man. He's never worked for anyone directly. And with the money he's got… he doesn't have to."

"So he knew you back when you were—" Jongin can't say it. Not that it matters; Taemin knows what he means.

"You're not the only one who saw something different for me." He turns. "I knew he'd gone to New York, but it took a while to find him. I had to ask around for months before somebody put me in touch. He's not someone you can just search for on the internet. He's private and hard to find. And he likes it that way."

Jongin skims his hand up Taemin's neck to hold his face, his earrings stinging cold against Jongin's palm. "Down," he says again, more gentle this time. 

Taemin lies the rest of the way back, every muscle in his body still tense. "Anything I heard about your court case came from him. And when you went inside—he tried to get you into a better place, but—nobody would budge. Because of what you—what they _think_ you did."

"Thank you," Jongin murmurs. Taemin inches closer to curl under Jongin's arm.

"It was bad, wasn't it?" Taemin asks. It's the first time he's asked about it since Jongin arrived in New York. "I mean, you looked—really bad—when you showed up."

"It could have been worse," Jongin says honestly.

He sat through his trial, grateful for the brief moments spent out-of-doors. He used to lean against the prison transport van's window, trying to memorize every detail of the outside world as something to hold onto and think about back in his cell. His sisters came and fussed over him, and Baekhyun, too, whose sleight-of-hand meant that Jongin was always riding back from the courthouse with a green apple Hi-Chew tucked between his back molars and his cheek to make it last. He stopped speaking in court and let his attorney sweet-talk his way into a three year sentence. Three, because he'd promised Taemin no longer than that.

Even though the trial had concluded, they still questioned him daily. The first three months the shackles rubbed his ankles and wrists raw until he earned their trust and was given permission to go without. They woke him up every fifteen minutes or pulled him out of meals, half-finished, to sit in the interrogation room for hours before they'd come back to him. The same government worker—"Some NIS lackey," Jongin assumes, wondering out loud to Taemin, who nods and squeezes his elbow, encouraging him to go on—asked him the same series of questions, usually in the same order. Jongin maintained his innocence throughout, then gave up answering. The punishment kept coming anyway.

He tells Taemin about the cell they kept so cold, and the lone, thin blanket riddled with moth holes that they'd issued to him. They told him to be grateful, and he was; grateful that there was an end in sight. The stiff straw mat did little to cushion his bones from the cement floor, so he sat in the corner and read aloud from one of the three books he'd been allowed to keep himself from going crazy, over and over, until the pages started to pull loose from their bindings. Now, hands empty, he can still recite them by heart. 

He tells him about the endless repetition, the hours of sit-ups, the hour a week he was allowed outside, shackled like an animal, or the meals under the watchful eye of the guards who always seemed half-tempted to throw him into general population and let the gangs take care of him. Jongin instructed Baekhyun to keep his family away. _"Keep them off the visitors list,"_ he said. _"I don't want them to see this."_

He tells him about the time his guards walked away and somebody put a boot in his stomach until he buckled in pain. He vomited blood in the dirt yard, and again when he returned. He thought he'd die, his injuries unattended to, but he woke up the next morning and saw the tally marks he'd been scratching on the wall to keep track of his sentence, and remembered Taemin was waiting. And so he lived.

He leaves out the part where he tried not to dream. With nothing to do but sleep for long stretches of time, it was inevitable. Always Taemin, achingly close—they're in the camp, and he can feel the humidity. Seoul, New York, or some nameless city street. Taemin getting lost in a crowd. Jongin doesn't tell Taemin about the times he woke up with wet cheeks and no memory of crying.

It feels strange to recount all of this out loud, like it happened to someone else. Taemin lies very still with a hand on the hollow of Jongin's back, just listening.

"Thank you," he says when Jongin finishes and draws a long, shaky breath.

There's more, but Jongin's throat hurts from talking. They've got time for the rest another day, as long as this operation goes well and nobody gets hurt. There's the way Baekhyun always noticed his bruises but didn't say anything. The notes he would pass—usually in his handwriting, sometimes Soojung's—detailing the latest intelligence on Taemin's whereabouts. Nothing for the first six months, nothing until Chuseok rolled around and Jongin's old identity resurfaced somewhere in Queens.

That was the first time he heard Hong's name. Baekhyun's investigation turned up next to nothing, not even a parking ticket. WH. Initials on a piece of paper leasing Allied Interests' headquarters. Baekhyun's been fascinated ever since. How can one man worth so much money not leave a trail of any kind? How can one man with so much influence be invisible?

Baekhyun assured him Taemin was okay. _"What was he to you?"_ he asked once, and Jongin still doesn't know how to adequately respond. Baekhyun seemed to understand the weight of Jongin's silence and brought a surveillance photograph with him on the following visit, folded into a tight square and tucked for safekeeping into Jongin's sleeve. _"Look who I found."_

And that's the only time Jongin broke. Relief, so strong it hurt. He pressed his hands into his stomach like he'd been stabbed and _sobbed_ until the guard came by and yanked him to his feet, declaring the visit over.

To this day, Baekhyun's never told anyone about that visit. 

Jongin is grateful to Baekhyun for so many things, but for that day especially.

☠☠☠

"I have to go," Taemin says when the first grey light of dawn starts peeking through the blinds. A snow plow rumbles down the street outside. Jongin's face is so cold that he can't feel his nose when Taemin kisses it. In New York, they'd have the heating on full-blast, hiding under the covers all weekend, ordering take-out and eating it in bed. Taemin's into action movies (because of course he is) and loves to point out the Hollywood inaccuracies with aplomb.

"Do what you have to do," Jongin says, wishing they were back at home, watching this particular storyline unfold on a tv screen instead of in real life. "Let me know where you need me to be."

"We'll get in touch when we've got something for you. We'll leave word down the block. Third brick behind the bakery's dumpster is loose. Check there."

"Taemin…"

"It's the only connection we have. We can use Chanyeol's debts to lure them back out." Taemin pulls his coat over his shoulders, not bothering to tuck his left arm inside the sleeve. "When they get in touch, tell them he hired me."

"I don't want to involve him."

"He's already involved. Don't worry, Jongdae and I will make sure he's prepared."

"Be safe," Jongin says, and it feels so inadequate.

☠☠☠

Jongin spends the next day biding his time, waiting for a call from Wolf—or Jongdae, or anyone, really. Nothing comes. He feels so lost, completely disconnected from the world outside. _Is Chanyeol okay? Did Taemin get caught? Did Wolf forget about him?_ He kills time cooking ramen on the stove just to keep his fingers warm, and when he's finished with that, he reads through the materials Taemin had left behind until his eyes start to cross. He makes regular perimeter checks, passing through the alleyway behind the bakery only to return empty-handed and disappointed. Taemin doesn't come back, either, and although he hadn't really been expecting him to, he finds himself unable to sleep when the sun sets.

Finally, Soojung reaches out. He's dragging his boots in the snow, toeing through the dirty puddles of slush, and he glances up mostly out of habit—he's not expecting anything. But the brick's been disturbed, ever so slightly. Not enough that anyone would notice, unless they were looking for it.

He'd recognize her handwriting anywhere, even if it has been years since she's written him anything. "Venti Americano. ₩16,500." Which would be an insanely overpriced cup of coffee, except he knows precisely what she means: _Starbucks. 4:30._

He bundles up, wrapping a scarf around his nose and mouth to block out the cold, and leaves the original phone from Wolf behind the same loose brick, four blocks in the opposite direction from where he's meeting Soojung. Can't be too careful. He's lucky Taemin hadn't been spotted leaving the safe house yesterday morning, and he's not going to take any more chances with putting the people he loves in danger, if he can possibly help it.

 

Soojung's already sitting at a back table, wearing a bluetooth earpiece and nursing a large coffee. She's got a thick double-issue of Ceci to keep her company while she waits. Jongin buys a copy of today's newspaper, orders the sweetest, tooth-aching thing off the menu (with extra whipped cream) and sits directly behind her.

"We've never worked together in the field," he says, tugging the brim of his hat over his eyes a little further, trying to look like he's reading the news to himself. "Baekhyun's probably losing his mind right now."

"He's staying late at work," she says. "Taemin's looking after Jonghee."

"Does it worry you that your babysitter knows ten different ways to build a bomb?"

"I can't think of anyone I'd rather have taking care of my daughter, except maybe you." She laughs. "Were you followed? Any problems at the safe house?"

"No."

"Good." She pauses and flips a few pages forward in her magazine. "First snow of the year the other night," she says. "We took Jonghee sledding. I'm sorry you missed it."

"Maybe when this is all over," he says. He can hear the smile in her voice.

"Taemin filled us in on everything. He put me in touch with Hong. His contact's supposed to send me an encrypted briefing, but I haven't gotten it yet."

"I'm sorry I didn't know about Hong sooner. It—makes sense, I guess. I should have asked more questions about him. I just didn't want to know."

"Oh, Jongin," she says. "I'm so grateful you're here at all. We knew Taemin was involved with Hong's organization. It's actually the only way we could clear Hong as a suspect for what happened to you. We assumed Taemin would never work with him if that were the case."

Jongin wishes he could be so certain. Hong's still a relative stranger to him. To know that he's been keeping track of Jongin for _years_ before Jongin could even put a face to his name is daunting. And Taemin might trust him… but Jongin needs some more time to get used to the idea.

"So what's going on?" he asks instead. "Wolf hasn't reached out to me yet."

"Chanyeol has reopened the club. Kyungsoo and Yura have come back to town. And Chanyeol has agreed to hire me on as his newest waitress."

Jongin nearly chokes on his drink and has to pound on his chest a few times before he can speak properly. "You're kidding."

"My references check out. Baekhyun had to write one for me, but I don't think it counts against me."

"It's not safe for you to be in there, Soojung, these guys aren't afraid of the body count—"

"Nobody knows my face, Jongin. I can blend in. I'm a waitress—one of Yura's friends—I can stay close and nobody will suspect a thing."

"But—"

"It's what Yura agreed to, and it's what she's most comfortable with."

"What about Jonghee?"

"Well, she'll have to stay home."

"Soojung. These people shot Taemin—they held a knife on me—and you've got a daughter who needs you—"

"I know, Jongin. But somebody needs to be there who can keep an eye on them. My marksmanship is much better than Baekhyun's and it always has been. And at least this time we know what they look like, and we've got you on the inside to let us know when they're coming."

"I don't like this at all. This sounds like one of Taemin's crazy ideas."

"You sound like Baekhyun."

"Baekhyun's right."

"All due respect, Jongin, but I would have been a better agent than you. Baekhyun knows it, Jongdae knows it, and you know it. So shut up. I'm going in to make sure that they're protected, and that's that."

 

Soojung breaks protocol for a brief moment on her way out the door, when she's sure nobody's looking. She puts her hand on Jongin's shoulder as she passes, squeezing. _We can do this,_ it says. The door chimes upon her exit, and he sits at the table for a long while after that, watching his drink congeal into a mess of cream and sugar and melted ice that he can't bring himself to finish. He's completely lost his appetite. He thinks to Taemin's brief rundown of the tentative plan—the bomb, the restaurant—and now Soojung's going inside. More people in harm's way. More people he just wants to protect.

He debates putting a bullet in between Wolf's eyes the next time he sees him. He knows that won't end things, though. He's already put out word, and the whole gang is bound to be after Chanyeol now. No way to stop that train without one of Taemin's crazy, over-the-top pyrotechnical distractions.

A woman bumps into his chair in her haste to get out of the store. " _Perdón_ ," he hears her say, the sound muffled by her collar and the buzz of conversation around them. He nods a few times without making eye contact and then the door chimes, signaling her exit. 

" _Perdón_ ," he repeats suddenly, his mouth rounding over the vowels, searching for a memory. It clicks—her hair is shorter now, and her narrow frame was swallowed by that coat—but—it's definitely her. Natalia. She's here. In Seoul.

He storms out the door and into a swarm of commuters crowding down the sidewalk. He can't see Soojung anywhere—nor Natalia—and he's frantic. Did she recognize him? Is she after Soojung? Why is she _here_ , and where is Taemin—

He yanks off his glove and tosses it to the ground, heedless of the disgruntled complaints coming from the pedestrians who have to walk around him as he stands frozen to the spot on the sidewalk. He's got the first half of Soojung's number keyed in on his burner phone when the screen lights up.

Wolf.

"Not now, not now, not _now_!" Jongin yells, and the crowd parts a little more to give him some room. It rings again. One more, and he's done for. He answers it. "Yes," he says, tersely.

"You answer with this attitude? We're doing _you_ a favor," says a voice. Not Wolf's. Probably Donghyun, although Jongin's still glancing around wildly, hoping to catch another glimpse of Natalia. 

"What is it? I'm in the middle of something right now," Jongin says, impatient to end the conversation so he can call Soojung and warn her that Natalia's in town—which means she's got to be scouting somewhere—or some _one_ —

"No, you're not. Lee Taemin's been spotted down at that club. You said you wanted first dibs, so here's your chance. Go find him. You have an hour."

"I can't—"

"It's an hour, or not at all. When we get there, we're finishing him. You got it?"

"Yeah." Jongin swallows. He's alone on the sidewalk now, but he still feels like he's being crushed. He's out of time. "Got it."

☠☠☠

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm back! thanks for sticking with me ❤️❤️❤️


	12. Chapter 12

☠☠☠

Jongin checks the time on his phone. He’s got an hour to _deal with Taemin_ before Wolf shows up at the restaurant. It's going to take ten minutes, at least, to run all the way across town. He doesn't have a car, and he can't risk getting on a bus with a face as recognizable as his—

But Natalia. Natalia’s getting away.

He hesitates a moment longer, standing firm against the jostle of bodies as the impatient crowd parts around him and reforms, a teeming mass of shoppers wrapped in brightly-colored down coats. He can't see Natalia's bouncing ponytail anywhere. He can’t split himself down the middle to be in two places at once, and he’s got fifty-nine—now fifty- _eight_ —minutes before the world comes crashing down. Taemin-and Wolf—and _Chanyeol_ ; they all have to be his priority right now. He’ll worry about Natalia later. She’ll show her face again. She just has to.

He calls Soojung, who answers in a hushed voice. "Jongin, I just left you—what’s happened?" He doesn’t need to see her face to know she’s got that worried furrow between her eyebrows.

"Hurry and get Taemin over to Chanyeol’s," he says. "Wolf gave me an hour. There’s not much time to set up. I can try and stall him a little, but—"

"Jongin, that’s not going to be enough time to do everything."

"It’ll have to be."

"Let me drop Jonghee at my sister’s and we’ll be right there."

He runs until his chest burns. Retirement has not been kind to his disused muscles or his stamina, but adrenaline makes up enough of the difference. Once upon a time, back in his army days, he’d been able to do this kind of distance with a speed approaching the professionals, especially under this kind of pressure.

Business is in full swing when Jongin arrives at the restaurant, sorely out of breath. His lungs are on fire from the exertion of a three kilometer sprint in a winter coat, rendering him speechless and wheezing to catch his breath. A few stray patrons are outside smoking, half a dozen old men that admonish him for his manners as he blusters through the middle of them in his haste to get inside.

The crowd is bustling inside as well, still working through the early dinner rush with half a dozen regular customers perched like birds on a fence along the bar stools, heads bowed into their beer glasses, eyes down. Kyungsoo's back behind the bar, a welcome sight after his extended absence. It’s been so long Jongin can’t pinpoint the last time he’d spoken to Kyungsoo, but it’s been since the trial, at least. So. Years.

Kyungsoo hurtles around with breakneck speed and precision, an impossible number of glasses held between each finger, heading to the boisterous group down at the end of the bar. Miraculously, he does not spill a drop.

He pauses for a moment when he catches sight of Jongin over the customers’ shoulders. "Well, Kim Jongin," he says, nearly smiling. He tucks his notepad into the front pocket of his apron and hooks his thumbs there. "It’s been a very long time, and you still look exactly the same."

"Chanyeol," Jongin chokes out, still winded, brain moving too fast to stop for pleasantries even though under different circumstances he’d love to catch up with Kyungsoo. "Where is he?"

"Where else would he be? He’s in the kitchen—Yura’s upstairs, make sure you say hello—!" Kyungsoo calls after him over the dull roar of dinner conversations. Jongin pushes through the swinging door and right into the sweltering furnace of a kitchen in the middle of dinner service. 

Chanyeol doesn’t look up from his position over the stove, one hand rocking a saute pan full of a bright red sauce over the flame. Despite his sweat-drenched hair and the wet spots at the armpits of his chef’s coat, he seems more relaxed than he’d been at Baekhyun’s house. He’s always happiest when he’s working. Jongin doesn’t know what he’s going to do when the restaurant’s gone.

"Hyung."

"Jongin, if you want something to eat, it’s going to have to wait. We’re kind of slammed here."

"Hyung, you’ve got to get everyone out now." Jongin looks around for something to burn. He lays his hands on the greasy rag Chanyeol’s set aside, the one he’s been using to wipe off his knife all night, and douses it with cooking oil. Alarmed, Chanyeol backs away just as Jongin tosses it directly onto the burner’s open flame.

"Jongin, what are you _doing_?"

"Plan's a go," he says, watching the flames leap into the air, crackling and bright orange. "Wolf's on his way over to finish the job."

"What? But Jongdae said we had a few more days."

"Things change."

"Yura’s here, Jongin—and Kyungsoo—what are we supposed to do?"

"We’ll get them out of here, too. Everyone. But the customers need to leave right now or the body count is going to be astronomical. Go, hurry. Tell them there’s a problem with the stove."

Jongin clambers onto the stainless steel prep table. Alarmed, Chanyeol reaches out for his ankle. "Jongin— _careful_ , you’re going to fall—"

"I need to disable the sprinkler system before it goes off," Jongin says. "Go get rid of everyone. And pull the fire alarm, will you? We need to really sell it."

Chanyeol leaves, waving his arms as he goes, and Jongin seizes the kitchen phone off the wall to dial a number he still knows by heart.

Jongdae answers after the third ring, out of breath and slurring. "Whazzgoingon," he demands. "Is that an alarm? Where are you? Are you okay? Did you make contact with Soojung? How’d it go?"

"I’m at the restaurant. We’re on." 

Jongin waits, listening to Jongdae's scuffling as he goes to shut his office door for a little privacy. Jongin hasn't been to the NIS headquarters in years—for obvious reasons—but Jongin can still picture Jongdae’s office clearly. He’s been in need of an upgraded office for years and Jongin assumes he still hasn’t been granted permission to move out of that glorified walk-in closet with the shelves stuffed with stacks of books about codebreakers and espionage throughout history. Jongdae had quickly outgrown the space and really needed additional shelving but lacked the floorspace to accommodate any more furniture besides the couch (Jongin’s second favorite place to sleep when Chanyeol wasn’t around) and his desk, which was always in a permanent state of clutter, bits of listening devices and half-scribbled notes on the backs of receipts or whichever scrap of paper happened to be handy when the calls came in.

Jongin’d spent enough time in it to have every detail memorized, right down to the bronze plaque he’s got mounted on the wall over his desk, some acknowledgment of ten years in service. He’d gotten it right before Jongin went off the rails. He was prouder of that than anything else on his wall, any certification, any degree. Ten years.

"Dammit, Jongin. This isn’t enough time to get in place."

"It has to be. Soojung’s on her way over with Taemin."

"I’m still at work, but I’ll make up an emergency. What do you need from me?"

"Support. We’re going to need someone on the outside to come in if it gets bad."

"What are we talking here? I need some kind of signal before I come in shooting, Jongin, or somebody’s going to get hurt."

"The usual, right? We’ve done things like this blind before."

"Not in… quite some time, Jongin."

"This is still your job. I’m the one that should be worried, but we’ll make it work. Look, there’s a spot on the east corner of the building across the street. Decent cover, out of sight. Just stay there."

"And if I need to send word?"

"Text Taemin, I guess," Jongin says. "My phone’s worthless. They’ll be watching me too closely for me to check anything."

"You sure it’s such a good idea bringing him in?"

"No, I’m not sure," Jongin says. "I don’t like it. He needed a few more days of rest before we did this. But his 75% is better than anyone else’s 100%, and we don’t have a choice."

"Alright," Jongdae says. "I’m leaving the office right now. Stay alive until I get there, okay?"

"I’ll do my best, hyung." And then he remembers, that sick feeling of dread he’d done his best to suppress earlier tying his stomach in knots—they’ve got a bigger problem than Ssang Yong Pa. "Wait—hyung!"

"What? Jongin, we don’t have time to catch up right now."

"Hyung, Natalia's in town. She’s—I saw her, she was in Starbucks with us."

"What?" Jongdae inhales sharply. "Did she see you? Did she see Soojung?"

"I don't know, I didn't see her face, I didn't even notice her in there," Jongin says, cursing himself for not being more aware of his surroundings. He'd been looking for for Ssang Yong Pa thugs, not a tiny assassin, not the head of an international crime syndicate with power far beyond Ssang Yong Pa's reach. He’d never expected her to dare show her face on their turf.

"Jongin, are you sure it was her?"

"Yes. She spoke in Spanish."

"A lot of people in the world speak Spanish, Jongin. I’m—Taemin's supposed to meet with Hong's guy sometime tomorrow, maybe he'll have more information on her current whereabouts."

"Hong said they lost her in China. They don’t _know_ where she went after that. And if she managed to shake them, maybe she knew they were there—"

"Doesn't mean they haven't found her since. Anyway, you're in the middle of another job right now, Jongin. Put this on hold. Baekhyun and I will handle this on our end, you just make sure everyone gets out alright."

"I will."

"Good luck, Jongin. Remember what I said. I’ll see you soon."

☠☠☠

Soojung comes barreling in the back door just as Kyungsoo’s ushering the last customer out of the front, promising a meal on the house to each and every patron inconvenienced as soon as they get the stove fixed. Chanyeol’s got all the windows open and he’s doing his best to clear the black smoke, fanning the air with his grease-splattered apron. The air is still thick enough to choke on, which Soojung promptly does.

"Jongin. What did you do?"

"I did what I had to do to get everyone out of here as quickly as possible."

"Is the fire department going to show up?"

"I cut the direct line. We’re fine. Hurry. Where’s Taemin?"

Right on cue, Taemin pushes through the back door, trailing Soojung. He's got a bundle of paper grocery bags under his arm and despite the gravity of the situation, he's smiling, always smiling, eyes crinkled at the corners. He's starting to get crow’s feet and laugh lines from smiling as often as he does.

"I’m here," he says. "We can start the party now."

Normally he’s a fan of Taemin’s flippancy in the face of imminent danger, but he’s diving head first into an operation without adequate time to prepare, and while Taemin thinks that it’s all fun and games, Jongin—Jongin’s got a job to do. He scowls instead. Taemin clocks his expression and sobers immediately.

"What’s the plan?" Soojung asks. "Doors? Where are they? Do you know? I never got a chance to map out the floor plan."

"Kyungsoo can help you. Block everything you can. Leave the kitchen door, though—this is how we’ll escape."

"You sure this is the best chokepoint?" Taemin asks, dumping the contents of his shopping bags over the large prep table. 

"Yeah," Jongin says. "One exit, the tables will force them to come at us one at a time if they follow us. The windows up front in the dining room are going to be a problem. We need to cover them."

"But this door opens into an alley—"

"Baekhyun will be waiting for us out there," Soojung says. "He’s on his way."

"And Jongdae’s watching from the roof of the building across the street. He’s got a perfect view of the alley."

"Can I ask—?" Chanyeol clears his throat. "What’s he going to do just watching?"

Jongin pointedly does not make eye contact with Chanyeol when he says, "He has his rifle with him if something goes wrong."

"Let’s go," Soojung says, clapping her hands together. "Taemin, do you have everything you need?"

Taemin lifts his good shoulder to his ear. "I’ll be improvising with whatever I can find around here. If I can find fertilizer, or some sort of cleaning solution, we’ll be golden."

"How’s your arm?" Jongin asks, already knowing the answer. "Are you going to be able to do this?"

Before Taemin can respond, Kyungsoo steps forward. "What can I do? I want to help."

"No, Kyungsoo, that’s not a good idea." Jongin shakes his head. "All due respect, but this is different from two years in the army. You don't have any field experience with this kind of thing."

"He doesn’t know where I keep everything around here. I can help. I can get him the cleaning supplies, I can be his extra set of hands."

"You know what's going to happen, right? We're blowing this place up. We're luring the head of the largest crime organization in Seoul to this restaurant to frame him for a crime. You do not want to be here."

"Jongin, you need the help. This wasn't supposed to happen today. Just tell me what to do and I'll do it. I can help."

"Jongin, leave it. You’re more useful up front. He can help me," Taemin says. "You don't talk back, do you?"

"Taemin, he's a civilian, he doesn't know the first thing about building a bomb out of _The Anarchist Cookbook_. You're going to get yourselves killed."

"If he doesn't know what he's doing, he's not going to make any suggestions. Besides, you know what they say. Teach a man to fish..."

"Building a bomb is not the same thing as teaching a man how to feed himself."

"Yeah, but he already knows how to do that. It's a good skill to have." Taemin grins. "I know how to do it better than Jongin. Don't let him lie to you. The government spent hundreds of thousands of won to train him, and I learned the right way."

"We can’t argue about this anymore right now," Soojung says. "Jongin, just let him help. Come with me."

"Can you make me a drink while you’re at it?" Taemin calls after them.

"Are you _kidding_ me?" Soojung laughs. "At a time like this?"

"Of course. It keeps me focused."

"You’ll have to do without the drink," Soojung says. "I’ve got a plan for that liquor shelf."

☠☠☠

Soojung sets to work making Molotov cocktails using the clean dish towels stocked under the bar. Jongin, meanwhile, flips a barstool over onto its seat and rips a leg off with an unused strength he'd forgotten he once possessed. The industrial nature of adrenaline means that he sees a thousand solutions where previously he'd seen traps. He can do this. They can do this. This is a strategy, the end game on a chess board, and Wolf doesn't know he's walking right into a set-up.

"What are we doing?"

"Sealing off the exits," Jongin says, wedging the stool leg under the locked bar of the front door. "It won’t keep them out forever, but we want to do everything to slow them down."

Chanyeol throws himself back into the prep work, helping Jongin overturn the tables and push them against the windows at the front of the restaurant. It's not impenetrable, but it'll slow Wolf's guys down for long enough that Jongin has a chance at escaping.

He squeezes the nape of Chanyeol's neck when he catches him running his hands down the furred landscape of the billiards table, broad hands mapping out the turf-green terrain for what is most certainly the last time. Jongin remembers spending long hours here on their weekend leave, mostly letting Chanyeol kick his ass, talking with Chanyeol's parents and laughing at the embarrassing family stories. Yura'd be there too, sometimes, rubbing Chanyeol's close-cropped hair and laughing at their terrible military cuts. Later, she'd see Jongin come in to the restaurant wearing his NIS suits and laugh, telling him he'd always be the same baby brother to her, even when he dressed like he was worth half a billion and belonged somewhere in Gangnam. Jongin never told her the truth because it was easier to let her believe, but it was all a farce: _the suit's rented, my paycheck goes to support my mother, and I don't even have my name on a lease anywhere._ He hated lying about it, so at least now she knows the truth.

He thinks of his mother. It stings, unexpectedly, more than it perhaps should after this long. He'll never get over it. But there's no time for reminiscing when he's twenty minutes out from the worst, ill-prepared mission he's ever been on. He's worked operations on the fly before, out in the field, with limited resources, relying on the kindness of recruited assets, but he'd rather be in a controlled situation than deal with this kind of improvisation, especially when his best friends—his family, really, even if they aren’t linked together by blood—are in harm's way.

"We’ll buy you another one," he offers lamely, even though he knows that’s not really the point. "The insurance will cover it."

"My dad—he taught me how to play on this table," Chanyeol says softly, fingers trailing over a nick in the worn felt. "It’s been in here since I can remember."

"Chanyeol," Soojung’s voice breaks through, calling out over the clanking sound of bottles as she pulls them down off the shelf in armfuls of twos and threes. "Get anything from upstairs that you want to keep," she says. "But pack light. You want it to look like you were still living up there when the building blew up. You can keep your paperwork, passport, that stuff. A few keepsakes. Whatever fits in a backpack," she says. Chanyeol looks solemn. Soojung puts her hand on his shoulder, which takes some effort given the height disparity. "It's okay, Chanyeol. It's just stuff. We'll help you get back on your feet. You're welcome to stay with us until this is all sorted out."

"Shit. Yura—she’s still upstairs," Chanyeol says, suddenly remembering. "She didn’t leave with the customers. She said she was going to pack."

"I’ll get her," Jongin says. "Go see if Taemin needs any help."

Chanyeol hesitates.

"Chanyeol, go. We’ll be right down."

He’s barely pulled open the door to the staircase that leads to the second floor apartment when he hears a telltale creak. Someone’s waiting on the landing. 

"Jongin?"

Yura peers at him down the narrow staircase, gripping at the rickety bannister to keep her balance. She’s got a backpack slung over her shoulder. Jongin still feels jittery watching the support screw wobble, even though it's been holding fast like that to the wall for the better part of two decades, now, and hasn’t come loose yet.

Despite the harsh cold outside, Yura is stylishly dressed in a pair of thick woolen tights and a black lace dress. She pulls an oversized cardigan over her shoulders, one he recognizes as Chanyeol’s. She cups her hand over her round stomach, pulling the maroon cardigan a little tighter around her middle as if to conceal it.

"Hi," he says, feeling very young again. He always feels like he’s nineteen and meeting her for the first time when she looks at him like that with her hand cocked on her hip.

"You missed my wedding, idiot," she says. Some things never change. He smiles.

"Guess my invitation got lost in the mail." He clears his throat, serious now: "I’m really sorry." It’s the hundredth apology like this, and he knows he’s never going to be finished offering them to the people he left behind.

"You look good," she says. And then, a little more self-consciously: "I don't know what I was expecting you to look like, I guess. After..." she trails off, unable to bring herself to say it: _going to jail_. He knows what she means, anyway.

"I caught up on my beauty sleep." He extends a hand, fingers outstretched to coax her down off her perch. "Noona, you've got to get out of here."

There’s a loud thud downstairs and the splintering sound of a hundred pint glasses knocked off the shelf in one fell swoop. "What was that?" She shrinks back against the door frame, retreating back to Chanyeol's room.

"It’s just Soojung. But Yura, we've got to get you out of here. There's going to be trouble—"

"I know. I know, Jongdae told us. Jongin, I don't know what my idiot brother got himself into, but I don't understand why you have to do this. This restaurant—it was Dad’s, and Chanyeol doesn’t have anything else."

"I know, Yura. Believe me. I wish we didn’t have to do this, but there's no other way to make sure you're all safe."

"Why can’t we call the police? Isn’t that what they’re for?"

"The police don't respond to these kinds of phone calls, Yura. Ssang Yong Pa knows the right people, they know how to get the charges dropped, and they'll be back. And they'll know it's you, and they'll come after you." He clears his throat. "They'll come after you and Chanyeol. And Kyungsoo, and the baby."

"But what if we pay them what they’re asking? Won’t that make them stop?"

"If you pay them, they'll never leave you alone. They'll own you. And when your baby's old enough, they'll wait outside his nursery school, just to let you know they're still watching."

It’s a low blow, a scare-mongering tactic that seems to convince her. Jongin doesn’t feel good about it, but it gets her moving, and that’s the most important thing right now. She takes a few hesitant steps and lets Jongin take her hand. "Your sisters ask about you all the time," she says, hand splayed against the wall for balance. "I see Inna all the time, and she tells me—they miss you, Jongin. We all do."

"I know," he says. "I miss you, too."

☠☠☠

Since Baekhyun’s still not in place, Soojung isn’t comfortable letting anyone leave the building just yet. "Soon. If they knew Taemin was here this morning, they must have eyes on the place," Soojung says. "If we wait, they’ll be too distracted by what’s going on in the front of the building for anyone to follow us."

Yura settles in on one of the few remaining bar stools to watch Soojung work. Soojung flips the bottle from palm to palm, opening it with an expert twist and tossing the cap aside. Jongin anticipates this next step, and even before she's gotten the word _duct—_ out, he intercepts her, pushing a huge roll of duct tape across the bar. It skids and bounces away onto the floor, spinning aimlessly a few times before coming to a wobbly stop next to her feet.

"Jongin, quit it. I can handle this. Are the windows secured?"

"Done."

"Front door?"

"Done."

"Ask Taemin how much longer. We need to place it and get everyone out."

Jongin returns to the kitchen and finds Taemin stripped down to his undershirt in the sweltering kitchen, sweaty and furious, holding a measuring glass at eye level to watch the clear, syrupy fluid drizzle into a large mixing bowl. It smells like—

"Drain cleaner?"

"Industrial strength. For the floor drains," Chanyeol says, hand over his nose in a vain attempt to block out the acrid smell of melting styrofoam and ammonia. "Are you sure this is going to work?"

There's a stubborn lock of hair curled on the nape of Taemin’s neck, too short to be gathered into the tiny clubbed ponytail he’s got scraped up to the crown of his head. Jongin wants to wrap it around his index finger but hesitates, watching Taemin work with a knife's edge focus, reluctant to disturb him. 

"He knows what he's doing," Jongin says.

"I have to admit I never thought I’d see this happen in my kitchen. Where do you learn—"

"—You don’t even want to know," Jongin says, watching Taemin measure out styrofoam packing peanuts and melt them down. Taemin looks up, his face haloed by flyaway wisps catching the light filtering in from the greasy windows. He tries to push his hair off his face with the back of a cocked wrist and fails.

"It’s just like cooking," Taemin says in a cool voice, leaning over the table to let Jongin brush the sweaty hair off his face.

"Well that explains… so much about your cooking," Jongin says, and laughs when Taemin stomps on his toes.

Once the rest of the packing peanuts have melted down, Taemin exhales in one hard _whoosh_ , resurfacing, and the tension in the room breaks. "How big do you want it?" he asks in a voice loud enough to be heard over the racket Soojung’s making in the dining room. A cheery smile blossoms on his face. 

"Please don't break all the windows in the neighborhood," Jongin says, stepping around the prep table to where Taemin's packing his improvised explosives in plastic food storage containers. 

Taemin tries to wipe the sweat from his forehead with the back of a cocked wrist. "You're no fun, Jongin," he says.

"You can't level the block. Just enough to make a point." Jongin pulls down the sleeve of his sweater and mops at Taemin's face. "Targeted explosion, remember?"

Taemin hip-checks him in reply and moves away to look for a spatula.

"I don’t have a remote detonator with me," Taemin says after a moment, looking grim. "I meant to get one today or tomorrow. I thought we had more time. We've got to activate it manually." He holds up a long thread of butcher's string, soaked in sesame oil. "I made a long fuse, but… it might not be enough of a window to escape."

"I'll do it," Jongin says. "It makes the most sense for me to do it. I’ll figure out a way to get to it."

"Jongin, no," Taemin says softly, despite the resignation in his eyes. He knows Jongin’s right. They have to see this through now. "Jongin, Baekhyun’s here. We can leave, there's still time to regroup. We can tell him that I got away, maybe, and—"

"No. This has to be over," Jongin says. "We can't risk it."

"We can't risk _you_. This is stupid."

"I'll be okay," Jongin says. "This is what I was trained to do, isn't it? So I should put it to use. I'll get out in time. If I say I've got you upstairs, I can follow behind and light the fuse once they're upstairs. I can get out. I can jump to the roof from the bedroom window if I really have to, I'm not too worried about it, I know I can run faster than they can."

Taemin's hands find his waist, his shoulder, the side of his neck. Jongin can see the bandage peeking from underneath Taemin’s shirt and he can't stop himself from reaching out to touch the edge of it, smooth the curling plaster beneath his fingers back against Taemin's skin, still tacky with sweat. It peels back the moment Jongin's fingers leave Taemin's body.

"He could shoot you dead," Taemin says. "Don't underestimate him. He's an old man, but he's a mean bastard. How do you think he's stayed on top and in control all these years? He's willing to do what others won't. There's no line with him, Jongin. He doesn't care who he hurts." The sadness in Taemin's eyes makes Jongin's chest ache.

"You're not like him," Jongin says.

"We're killing men today, Jongin," Taemin says. He goes back to spackling the sticky, marshmallowy substance into the food storage container, pushing a fistful of screws into it, then another, doling them out like so much Halloween candy. "They aren't being framed for a crime, they aren't going to jail, even if they deserve to rot in a cell for the rest of their lives. We're adding a few more notches on our belts. I just didn't want that for you anymore."

"He wants you dead and he won't stop until you are. I don't have a choice, Taemin. You know you'd do the same for me. You'd never accept this for me, so why would you ever think it'd be a good idea for you?"

"What I think is that you're incredibly stupid."

"I think that’s why we work so well."

"Yeah, maybe." 

Taemin goes into the walk-in freezer and lights a cigarette. Jongin nearly tells him off for smoking inside the restaurant before he remembers that it doesn't much matter anymore, and that in about an hour there will be extensive smoke damage that has nothing at all to do with the menthol light Taemin's got balanced between his fingers.

"Been a while since I've put together one of Wolf’s bombs. I’m surprised I remember how, but it’s like riding a bike. Kind of."

"You sure it’s right?"

"Wolf had a very specific signature for his bombs. His calling card. He wanted people to know it was him. Using the screws, for one, and this." Taemin holds up a box of blue pellets he'd pulled from Chanyeol's maintenance closet. Rat poison. "He wants them to bleed out. Even someone who isn't fatally injured—they're going to die. Massive casualties. He’s obsessed with making the death count as high as possible. It keeps people afraid of him."

Jongin remembers a similar bombing of the Seoul subway line about fifteen years ago. At the time, a North Korean splinter group had been blamed, and although North Korea had denied responsibility, that was par for the course for them, and gunfire had been exchanged for a few days before it tapered off. The death and destruction, though— _that_ , he definitely remembers. He'd been in Malaysia at the time on a joint mission with an American operative who was trying to track down a shipment of counterfeit heroin that was poisoning tourists in hostels, and he'd sat in rapt horror, watching the footage scroll by on the news. Bodies, so many bodies. He'd assumed at the time it was because of the confined space, but now he knows. Anyone affected by the blast was marked for death. He'd flown home immediately and they'd started their work on the investigation. No leads. Nothing.

"It wasn't me," Taemin says softly, sounding ashamed of himself anyway.

"I know. You'd never do that."

"I knew they were going to do it, though. I should have stopped them."

"They would have killed you if you tried."

Taemin looks at the chain of explosives and lifts a shoulder. "Look at me now. I’m just as bad."

"But they were innocent. They targeted innocent people. Wolf's not innocent. Donghyun’s not innocent."

"I know. There's no other way around this. It'll never stop." Taemin twists his cigarette between his fingers until the lit tip crumbles to the cement floor and goes dark. "It still sucks."

"I know," Jongin says. "Sometimes that’s just the way it is. Making bad choices and hoping we live long enough to make up for them later." He follows Taemin out of the cold storage. "We might be in bigger trouble if we get out of this alive."

"Oh, we’ll get out of this alive. I have no intention of dying here. Why? What kind of trouble?"

"I saw Natalia."

Taemin hesitates for a split second, genuine surprise lifting his eyebrows. "You… saw Natalia? Today? Where?"

"At my meeting with Soojung. She was there. In the coffee shop."

"Was she following you? Was she listening in?"

"Honestly?" Jongin says, leaning in. He lowers his voice even though Chanyeol and Kyungsoo have gone back up front and Soojung's making enough noise in the front to drown out any conversation, anyway. "I don't think she knew I was there. She didn't seem to see me. Wouldn't she have killed me on sight? I got away."

"We still don't know why they're using you, Jongin. It could be—all of this could be part of her plan. She's manipulating so many players and we can't even see all the pieces on the board yet. Let's just get through this first, okay?" Taemin sighs and runs his bare hand down his face, the lines on his face deep with exhaustion. "I'll talk to Hong's guy about it. Hong set up a meeting for us. He said—you can come, if you want in." He smiles then. "I told him no secrets. Not between us."

Jongin nods. "Yeah. I—I’m in." 

"You know, this wasn't on my list of things to do today."

"You're always up for a little demolition, though."

"I am," Taemin agrees, perking up a little bit. "Anyway, Timo's meeting me tomorrow—"

" _Timo_? Hong’s guy is named Timo?"

"It's his code name. I don’t know his real name. It could be Buttercup Asshole Sunshine Jones, for all I know."

"He’d probably be better off working under a name like that. Timo and Tim Lee. That's not going to be confusing at all."

"Hey, I didn't have much of a say in the matter," Taemin says. "I used your ID to get to New York, remember? So this is all your fault. You chose it for me."

"Being Tim Lee got you out of the country. I think it's a lucky one."

"I miss being Dragon."

"You used it a few times after you left."

"I did. I had to leave you some clues."

"I found them." He puts his hand on Taemin's chest, then his hip, then his chin. "How are your stitches? Are you feeling okay?"

"Of course I am." His face lights up with misplaced joy. "I'm invincible."

Even though it’s not really the time for it, Jongin kisses him, his mouth open and soft. "Just for luck," he murmurs shyly, wiping the spit from the corner of his mouth with his ring finger.

"Like we need luck when I'm this good," Taemin says, but reels him back in for an encore anyway.

☠☠☠

Baekhyun calls, finally— _finally_ , with five minutes left on the countdown.

"I'm outside," he says. "Just let me know which door you're coming out and I'll be there."

"Back alley. Yura's coming first," Jongin says. "Get her out of the way first if you can."

"Yura's still in there? Christ, Jongin, you guys were supposed to evacuate everyone."

"Believe me, hyung, I tried. I really did."

He pauses. "Fine, send her out now. I—I can’t leave now, she’s got to stay with me. We’re cutting it too close as it is."

Yura panics when Jongin hangs up the phone and points at the door. "No," she says, pointing at Kyungsoo and Chanyeol. "I leave when they leave."

"Yura, be reasonable—" Chanyeol starts.

"I am being reasonable. I’m not going by myself!"

"They need to stay here. Wolf will know something’s up if they’re not—"

"Then I stay too."

Jongin shoots Soojung a look of sheer desperation. _Please, help._

"Here, come with me, Yura. I’ll walk with you outside, okay? Baekhyun’s waiting, the car is nice and warm. Kyungsoo and Chanyeol will be right out. I promise."

Yura clings to Kyungsoo for a beat longer, her hands on his face, whispering something Jongin can’t make out, not that he needs to hear the words to recognize that gesture: _be safe, I need you_.

Soojung takes Yura’s hand. "I’ll be right back," she says. "Make sure everything’s in position. Taemin, I’m not supposed to be impressed by this, because you're exactly the type of person my clients hate, but... this is beautiful work," Soojung says, inspecting Taemin’s handiwork with a reverent eye. "You'll have to show me how to do this sometime. I've never seen somebody build a bomb like this."

"It was too short-notice to make it pretty, but it’ll do the job," Taemin says. "Where do you want it?"

"Inside the storage closet next to the stairs. It’s a load-bearing wall," she says. "We need it to bring down the second floor, and the fire needs to be hot enough that the fire department won’t put it out at once. If we're destroying the building then it really needs to go down to the studs."

Chanyeol flinches and pretends not to be listening, arranging the line of bottles on the bar to keep his hands busy, but the devastation is written all across his face as plain as day. Taemin obeys, shooting a sympathetic glance over his shoulder as he goes. Kyungsoo can’t take his eyes off the plastic lighter in his hand, too sullen to speak. 

"Chanyeol, as soon as you’ve thrown those and created a diversion, you follow too, you hear me?" Soojung says. "Don’t stay any longer than you have to. Jongin and Taemin and I will handle the rest."

"Go, Soojung. Get her out of here," Jongin says. "As soon as Taemin gets the bomb placed, we’ll be ready for them, but I need you in here."

"I know you do." Soojung links elbows with Yura to keep her close.. "I’ll be back."

No sooner than Soojung and Yura disappear into the kitchen, the front door swings open with a deafening bang, knocked off its ancient hinges by a henchman's foot. Kyungsoo startles and ducks behind the bar. Jongin's hand goes to his waistband only to discover his gun is gone. Taemin must’ve taken it off him earlier, and he’s—down the hall, probably hiding—though not for long, if Jongin knows him at all (and Jongin knows him very well).

Wonshik comes staggering through the door, hand over his face, blood streaming from an obviously-broken nose, and then a boot in the small of his back drives him to his knees, hard. Jongin flinches but stays steady. Chanyeol cries out until Jongin has to elbow him in the ribs to get him quiet. Reacting to violence in front of these guys will only provoke more violence.

"I told him what would happen if I found out he was yanking me around, but I didn't know—you were fucking him this whole time," Wolf says, and spits on Wonshik, who tries to crawl away, blood still dripping through his fingers.

"You're fucking him," Wolf says, pointing the barrel of his gun at Jongin. "You're fucking Lee Taemin. You're not here to track him down, you're here to interfere with me. And we've got a big fucking problem, kid, because people do not cross me and live to tell about it."

☠☠☠


	13. Chapter 13

☠☠☠

The world goes impossibly still for a moment, frozen in tableau: Jongin on one side of the room, hand still at his waist where his gun should have been; Donghyun and Wolf on the other, squared off in front of the door, barring an easy retreat. They're trapped.

Nobody moves. Nobody breathes.

The air hangs heavily in the dining room, dust particles illuminated like sparkling glitter in the shafts of sunlight peeking through the boards on the windows. It had been a haphazard job, trying to prepare the restaurant, and Jongin sees now how ill-prepared they truly are. They need more time. They're out of time.

Jongdae's probably in place outside by now, but without any clear lines of sight into the restaurant, there's no way he can tell what's going on. Jongin can make out the outline of Chanyeol's phone in his pocket. Wolf's still watching them with a singular, burning focus in his good eye, which means Jongin can't retrieve the phone and get a call out. But—if there's a way of distracting them for a moment, then perhaps he can get the phone in his hands before they turn back around. It's a risky maneuver, considering Donghyun's finger keeps flexing against the trigger, pad of his index finger itching almost fondly back and forth against the curved grip. From the look in his eyes, it's clear he plans on shooting them all the minute Wolf gives him the order.

"Listen," says Jongin, tapping into a source of calm he thought he'd buried too deep inside of himself to find ever again, "I don't know what you think you heard, but I have no idea where Lee Taemin is, and I don't—"

He doesn't get to finish his sentence. Donghyun steps forward, eliminating the safe distance between them, and hits him across the face with the pistol. Someone gasps audibly—Jongin doesn't know who, can't see past the fizzing pinpricks of light blurring his vision.

Jongin takes the next hit with his eyes closed, anticipating this one, body turned away to deflect the blow. He still feels the rattle of molars in his jaw, the sour taste of blood in his mouth from a freshly-split lip.

The air in the restaurant is thick with silence after Donghyun's outburst, punctuated by Wonshik's loud breathing through his open mouth. He's still bleeding, thick, brown-red clots staining his chin and his shirt. When they get out of here (if? if they get out of here) his nose is going to need resetting. Chanyeol finally steps forward and pulls Jongin back, just out of Donghyun's reach. It's unnecessary; Donghyun's finished, at least for now.

"Save it," Wolf says. "I am really not in the mood to listen to you, Traitor. I gave you a chance to help me out of the goodness of my heart. You made a huge mistake coming into my business—was it his idea?" His voice goes dangerously soft as he sing-songs, "Taemin. Come on out. It's been too long between us. Don't treat me like a stranger."

Discovered. Jongin had thought they'd have more time to prepare for this. He'd taken every precaution with the phone, but Wolf must've had someone following him. Someone must've seen Taemin leaving the safe house in the early hours of the morning and put the pieces together. He should've known someone like Wolf would've been watching him. He should've—told Taemin to stay, maybe. Or told him to stay away. Judging by Wonshik's ruined face, he must have unwillingly filled in the gaps for Wolf. They're blown without a back-up plan.

"Taemin, I am not a patient man." Wolf says. "Come out right now, or I'll make sure nobody leaves this place alive." Pause. "You want that? You're on the other side now, aren't you? I hear things. Water shipments, Taemin? Relief aid? What kind of money could you possibly be making on that kind of nonsense?"

More silence.

"Where is he?" Wolf demands. "Kim Jongin, I am not fucking around here. You said you were going to bring me Lee Taemin, and your time's up. Where is he?" He turns around. Jongin's watching the gun in his hand, swinging wide, aiming at nothing in particular, but Donghyun's still there and standing firm, finger on the trigger.

"He's not here," Jongin says. "I don't know where he is." He can't get the gun in Donghyun's hand away from him, not without risking someone's life. Too many variables, outnumbered and flanked by civilians who could be caught in the crossfire if the gun goes off. 

"You're lying!"

"He was supposed to meet me here. He never showed." Out of the corner of his eye, Jongin sees Kyungsoo's hand appear above the bar, reaching blindly for the bottles of liquor Soojung had so painstakingly prepared. Jongin pushes on harder, trying to keep their eyes on him and away from Kyungsoo. "Why don't you let me call him and ask him what's taking him so long?"

"And let you tip him off?" Wolf sneers. "No. I know he's here. I can feel it in my bones. I always know when one of my own is close."

Taemin's not operating at a hundred percent. If he's been crawling through the ceiling he's probably torn his stitches wide open again—what if he's hurt, too hurt to move—what if he's stuck somewhere, a sitting duck for when they inevitably make a sweep of the building, looking for him—

Jongin shakes himself. He's spiraling. Taemin's better than that. They all are. He has to trust that they'll get out of this alive and waits for his window to make a move.

Kyungsoo's fingers close around the base of a half-full bottle of gin. Slowly, inching towards the edge, as slowly as he can manage without making a racket, it disappears below the bar, still safely in his grasp. Donghyun doesn't notice. Neither does Wolf. Jongin suppresses a relieved sigh. It's a long shot, but they've got some options now.

"He's probably gone by now. Why would he stay?"

"I've got you, don't I?"

"He won't trade himself for me," Jongin says, his voice raised in the hopes that Taemin's somewhere nearby, listening to the exchange. _Don't do anything stupid,_ Jongin thinks, wishing there was a way to know for sure what Taemin had up his sleeve.

"I think he will."

The flaming bottle of gin arcs across the bar and lands with a fiery crash at Donghyun's feet. 

All hell breaks loose. Donghyun leaps back, the cuff of his trousers on fire, and narrowly avoids setting Wonshik on fire, as well. Wolf rushes the bar, looking for the source of the projectile.

Jongin sees the opportunity and seizes it, snapping Donghyun's wrist back with a violent motion, and then he's the one holding Donghyun at gun point. But in the chaos he'd forgotten to count the enemies, and—

The cold kiss of a barrel nudges behind his ear. "Drop it," Wolf says, his voice soft and very close, close enough for Jongin to feel the wet heat of Wolf's foul breath down his neck, "or I'll blow your fucking head off."

Jongin stiffens, adjusting his grip on Donghyun's pistol. He feels sick. That's it. If Jongdae and Baekhyun didn't hear the commotion, they're not going to know what's going on. They're in here all alone, and he's just ruined their one shot at getting out of here. Donghyun moans, holding his wrist protectively to his chest. It's visibly broken.

"Do it," Jongin says hoarsely. Beyond Donghyun's legs he can see Wonshik still sprawled on the floor, hands brown with drying blood, wide-eyed and mute with terror. "He'll be halfway around the world before my body cools. He has no reason to stay in Seoul. I'm just slowing him down—"

"Tie them up," Wolf says, pressing the gun harder into Jongin's ear. "Wait until we've got Taemin, and then kill them all."

Donghyun inclines his chin, eyes looking beyond Jongin's shoulder, but it's too late for Jongin to step out of the way. Jongin feels the rushing air of Wolf's arm bringing the butt of a pistol down on the crown of his head, and then nothing.

☠☠☠

The cold wakes him. No, it's not just the cold, it's—someone jostling him, pulling at his burning, chafed wrists—touching him—it's not Donghyun or Wolf, it's—gentle—a voice he knows—he struggles to regain consciousness, chasing it—

"Jongin. Jongin. Hey—come on. Nap time's over."

It takes a moment for his vision to slide into focus. Taemin's kneeling in front of him with a paring knife, trying to cut through the plastic zip ties around Jongin's wrists without nicking him. He grins when he sees Jongin's eyelashes flutter open.

"Finally," he says, pulling the knife free. Jongin's wrists separate with a painful lurch as the plastic drops to the floor. "That was worse than trying to get you out of bed in the morning."

Jongin wants to smile, but he's overwhelmed by the oppressive freezing cold, his muscles shivering violently before he even registers what's going on. He struggles to sit up and get a better look around. They're in the cold storage, surrounded by shelves stuffed with fresh produce. Taemin's cigarette butt from earlier is still on the floor.

"How long have I been out?"

"Fifteen minutes, maybe." Taemin sets to work on the ties around Jongin's ankles. "I'm sorry I didn't get you first. Kyungsoo and Chanyeol were easier to find. I figured you'd be awake by now and finding your own way out of this. I didn't think he hit you that hard."

Jongin laughs weakly. So Taemin had been nearby, listening to the whole exchange. His eyes fall on the door, still pulled shut and locked tight. "How did you get in here?"

Taemin points to the ventilation system on the ceiling where the grate's been kicked in. "Your lips are blue. We've got to get you out of here." He shrugs out of his jacket and pulls it around Jongin's shoulders, his hands on Jongin's cheeks, probing at the bruises Donghyun had left there. "Put it on. Can you stand?"

Jongin rises on wobbly feet, holding fast to Taemin's sleeve and standing a little closer to him to share Taemin's body heat, teeth chattering. "Yeah, I'm—I've got it, I'm fine," he says as the room spins around him. Taemin grabs hold of his sore wrist and holds him steady. "Sort of."

"You made a mistake letting Wolf get behind you. You're lucky he didn't shoot you." 

"You took my gun, remember, so I didn't have a lot of options. Thanks for that, by the way. I forget you started out as a pickpocket."

"Yeah, I know, that one's totally my fault. Sorry." Taemin's fingers skim up the side of Jongin's head. Searing pain and tenderness blossom over his skull, flashing white-hot behind his eyes. Taemin smiles gently, his fingers coming away wet with fresh blood. "Oh, there it is. That's a nice goose egg."

Jongin winces, pushing Taemin's hand away. "Stop."

"Guys, as touching as this reunion is, we need to keep moving." Soojung's face appears at the gaping hole in the ceiling. She's grinning from ear to ear, infinitely proud of herself. Jongin cracks a smile despite himself and instantly regrets it when his split lip re-opens.

"She's right. They know we're in here, so they're going to come back for you any minute." Taemin loops his arm around Jongin's waist. "Can you climb?"

Jongin looks up at the gaping hole in the ceiling. Theoretically, yes, he's been trained to make escapes like this, but the tilting room makes it also seems a million miles away. Taemin senses his hesitation and moves quickly to climb up on the nearest shelf, tipping a basket of lemons over onto the floor with a dozen quiet, dull thuds. He laughs, swinging, and gets a leg up into the ventilation system, and pulls himself through. His face appears a moment later, arms outstretched, reaching for Jongin's hands to hoist him up.

"Come on," he says. "Hurry."

Between Soojung and Taemin, they manage to pull Jongin up, his legs flailing, kicking at the shelving as he struggles to gain purchase. The shelves topple over with a mighty crash. 

"There's no way they didn't hear that," Taemin says. "I've heard less damage during earthquakes, Jongin. Hurry."

It's even colder in the ventilation shaft. The jacket does little to protect Jongin from the frigid temperature and his bare skin zings each time he pulls himself a few painful inches forward with his palms. A particularly hard gust of cold, compressed air sends Jongin down hard on his elbows. 

"Come on," Taemin says. "Hold onto my ankle." He pulls Jongin's weight the full length of the building without complaint, pace unflagging, right at Soojung's heels. Jongin can hear a distant clanging behind him—the discovery of his escape, no doubt—and pushes up against Taemin with renewed energy.

"Soojung, hurry," Taemin urges. "We're losing our head start here."

"Hold on," she says, coming to a complete stop. "I can only work so fast." Jongin can't see what she's fiddling with, but there's an earsplitting slice of metal-on-metal as she kicks out a loose maintenance panel. Jongin can hear voices behind them, echoing and faint. It sounds like Donghyun's too broad-shouldered to fit in the shaft, and he's down to one usable hand anyway, so they're safe, but not for long.

"They're going to find us," Taemin hisses just as Soojung drops out of sight. He climbs over the hole and gestures for Jongin to go down next. Jongin looks over the edge to where Soojung's waiting.

"So much for the big plan," she says when Jongin and Taemin are finally clear. They're in the men's bathroom at the front of the restaurant. She busies herself jamming the door handle closed, which won't buy them much time if Donghyun shoots the lock out, but it'll give them a chance to break the windows out. Taemin disappears into a stall. Jongin blinks, wondering if he realizes they're on the run from a couple of gangsters out for his blood—there's no time to take a piss—but Soojung's still talking, heedless of Taemin's bladder. "What _happened_ , Jongin—I barely got clear before Jongdae was pulling us out of there."

"They know about us."

"But _how_ could they possibly—were they following you?"

"I don't know," Jongin says. "Probably? How else—?" The toilet tank in the stall rattles as Taemin dislodges it and sets it on the floor at his feet. "Taemin? What are you _doing_ in there?"

"I put the bomb behind the water tank," Taemin says like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "I've had a lot of practice figuring out the best place to put these things. Trust me a little, will you?"

"I do."

That settled, Taemin takes a moment to check him over for scrapes again—brief, just enough time to skim his hand up Jongin's shoulders to his neck, hands soft, and then steps away, already mid-stride towards the door, pistol drawn. "You guys take the window," he says. "Baekhyun's waiting for us around back. I'll meet you there. I've got something to take care of first."

"No, Taemin—"

"Soojung, get him out of here. He's going to need to get his head checked. It's still bleeding."

"It's fine. It'll be easier to clear the building with two people," Jongin insists, shrugging Soojung's hand off his arm. "Safety in numbers."

Taemin grins. "What, don't you trust me to handle this on my own?"

"Taemin, we're out of time," Soojung says. "No more risks. Light it and let's get out of here. _All_ of us." She pulls a plastic lighter from her jeans and tosses it to him. "We're compromised. I'm not leaving either of you idiots behind. This job is done."

The look in Taemin's eyes shifts to something less irreverent. He hands over the pistol to Jongin, who puts it back in the waist of his trousers and pulls Taemin's jacket over it to hide the outline. The chaos of the search party is growing louder, nearly upon them now. It's only a matter of time before Donghyun realizes they'd ended up in here. He nods and flicks the lighter with a practiced thumb. He's about to blow up Chanyeol's restaurant, but he looks so _cool_ doing it—

"Go," he says, shoving Jongin, still commanding a flame with his right hand. "I'll get it started."

"You're hurt, what if you can't get out—"

"I'm faster than you are, even when I'm hurt," Taemin says. He pulls Jongin in sharply by the nape of the neck like he's trying to play a movie hero, kissing Jongin hungrily, despite the urgency of the world around them, his meaning clear: _there's more where that came from. Later._ There's also the way he knows the way Jongin's brain fogs up when he's like this, makes him prone to Taemin's suggestions—he grins, winking, and shoves him towards the window.

"Get a head start. I'm right behind you."

Soojung hesitates. "Jongin's right, though, Taemin—your chest, you've been exerting yourself a lot, and—"

"I promise I will be fine," he says, and despite the situation Jongin's never believed anything more in his life. "Count to ten and if I'm not there, I'll accept any punishment you hand out."

"He hands out," Soojung says, pointing at Jongin. "He knows how to hit you where it hurts."

Taemin smiles brightly, the cheerful one that borders on manic, the one where he gets that glint in his eyes like he's about to cause some serious mayhem. "I feel like you could do some damage, if you really wanted to." Jongin's suddenly struck with the image of Soojung, freshly-inducted to the NIS, grabbing Jongin by the wrist to disarm him after he'd made some knuckle-headed, dumbass comment in her general direction. He smiles. It's not the time for the anecdote, but later.

The doorknob rattles violently, jerking them back into action. "Time to go," Jongin says, all business now, offering Soojung a leg up to the window. She steps past him and pulls herself up without his assistance. The window is narrow, but she slips through with little difficulty and hangs by the fingertips of one hand, waiting for Jongin to climb up and join her.

This takes him back. He'd made a similar escape from a club in Macau, some months before he'd encountered Taemin for the first time. Another link to the gun-running syndicate Taemin'd been fronting for. It had been this hectic, he recalls. He'd stolen some intelligence from some casino owner, and they'd figured out he wasn't just some high roller around the same time he was looking for an emergency exit. The fourth-floor window was the easiest route—

"Jongin, _come on_ ," Soojung says impatiently. Snapping back to action, he hoists himself onto the ledge. She hops down onto the sidewalk to clear space for him to come through. He drops with his knees bent, easily, landing as gracefully as a cat.

A few passersby notice their unconventional exit and start pointing, shouting, trying to flag down a security guard from the club down the street. "We've been spotted," Jongin says. "There's going to be trouble if he's not out here right now."

"If who's not out here right now?" Taemin asks, poking his head through the open window. "Get away from the windows, this thing is going to blow." There's a loud splintering noise behind him, different from the shattering porcelain of a bomb going off, and his eyes widen. "Shit, shit, they're in here, move—"

Frantic, he launches his body through the window in one forceful movement, clubbing his knee on the frame as he struggles to climb through. There's a hand—Donghyun's hand, his remaining good one—reaching out behind Taemin, trying to catch him by the waist and pull him back in. Jongin grabs Taemin's elbows and yanks him free. The few witnesses across the street has grown to a dozen or more, all shouting for help.

Taemin pulls free, mercifully, just as a siren wail starts up in the distance. Donghyun appears at the window after Taemin, struggling to follow, his bulky frame proving a burden to the chase yet again, handicapped by the wrist and his own dimensions. Taemin springs back on his feet and ahead of Soojung in a sprint, towing Jongin by the sleeve of his borrowed jacket to a car parked at the end of the block.

"Did I make it in time?" Taemin asks playfully as he shoves Soojung forward to move her faster. 

An abrupt blast behind them fractures the windows, a curtain of ash and smoke knocking them down. They hit the asphalt of the alleyway with the force of a speeding car. Jongin winces, ribcage meeting asphalt meeting skull in a painful tumble, head over feet. This second blow to the head makes the world swim for Jongin, eyes watering, scrabbling at the sidewalk as the pain flashes over him, excruciating and overwhelming all at once. 

Beside him, Soojung coughs wildly, her hand over her mouth to try and filter out the worst of the debris. Taemin's over her, holding her down until the dust settles. There's a raging fire still moving through the wooden interior of what's left of Chanyeol's restaurant. The rubble is surrounded by a black cloud of smoke, so thick that Jongin can't make out the opposite side of the lot, where the bathroom had been.

Taemin's voice brings him back to the present. He's not shouting at Jongin though, he's—saying something to Soojung. Jongin looks up blearily, the acrid smell of sulphur burning his nostrils, watching where Taemin's gesturing through the smoke.

It's Wolf. He'd managed to escape somehow, but he's limping badly, yanking a battered, bound-at-the-wrists Wonshik along with a gun jammed into his ribs. Taemin yells.

"Wolf! I'm right here, come and get me!"

Wolf looks back and fires off a shot when he sees Taemin. The bullet whizzes by, pinging off the brick behind them, but he doesn't fire again, too distracted by the way Wonshik's trying to struggle free from his iron grip now that the gun's not in his side anymore.

A car fishtails up the street, crazily, back door swinging open as it pulls up to Wolf. Wolf's still holding Wonshik hostage at gunpoint and he tries to shove him in the backseat. Jongin draws his own gun, his vision fracturing, splitting in two from the pain in his head. Wolf separates into two Wolfs—Wolves?—but Jongin takes aim and gets a shot off, winging Wolf's hand. Wonshik ducks at the sound of the gunshot, dropping to the sidewalk. Wolf stumbles over him, unusually panicked, chasing the car, abandoning Wonshik to the gutter as the door swings closed behind him and the car careens away.

Jongin fires after the car, emptying the clip. Nothing, not even a shattered back window for his trouble. A second car—a red one, this time, unfamiliar to Jongin and missing license plates—speeds up and screeches to a halt. Jongdae's in the driver's seat of this one.

"Jongin, I'm really tired of being your wheelman. Get in the car."

Taemin drags Wonshik into the front seat and dives in through the open door, landing sprawled across Soojung and Jongin's laps, feet still dangling out the open door as Jongdae peels away. The sirens are louder now, but Jongdae pulls into an alley and holds still as three police cars zip past, then another.

"Where'd you get the car?" Jongin gasps when they're finally safe and back out on the road, dislodging Taemin's knee from where it had landed dangerously close to his crotch. Soojung pushes Taemin off of her lap with a loud, disgruntled noise.

"You think I'm going to use my own car to drive away from the scene of a crime? Jongin. Use that brain of yours."

"So you committed _another_ crime?"

"Really not the point right now, Jongin. We saved your ass. Let's focus on the felonies we may or may not have committed along the way later, yeah?"

"Where's Baekhyun?" Soojung asks. "Did he get the others out?"

In the rearview mirror, Jongin catches a fleeting grimace on Jongdae's face, but Soojung seems to miss it.

"Yes. They had to stay behind—it would have invited too many questions if they had been across town when their restaurant exploded. He's making sure they're okay and then he's meeting us at the rally point."

"We had witnesses," Soojung says. "Any story they tell won't hold up for long."

"They'll assume we were Ssang Yong Pa," Taemin says, squeezing her hand to comfort her. "Forensics are going to pin the blame on them. We didn't show our faces. It'll be okay."

"Wonshik needs a doctor," Jongin says, like his blood-streaked face isn't enough of an indication.

"I'm fine," Wonshik says, hand still cupped around his face. It's the first time he's really spoken to them today. He sounds completely stuffed up from the broken nose, breathing through his mouth. "I'm so sorry, Taemin, I swear—I didn't tell them anything about you. They already knew when they found me."

"He knew about the relief work. I was dead to him until my fingerprints showed up in that investigation. How could he _possibly_ have known what I've been doing?"

"He knew about Hong. He knew—he knew everything."

Taemin leans forward sharply, hands braced on the back of Wonshik's seat. "He mentioned Hong? What did he say to you?"

"Not by name. He said you've been working for another boss and that you would be punished for the betrayal."

Taemin sighs and rubs his face, looking haggard with concern now that the adrenaline of the job's starting to wear off. "Sounds like Wolf."

"He knows you're after him now. He'll go so deep underground we'll never find him," Wonshik says. "It'll be months before he resurfaces again, with all the heat that's on him now."

"I'm sorry I missed him," Jongin says, hanging his head. "Guess I'm out of practice." 

Taemin inches his body closer to Jongin, thighs pressed flush together in the backseat of the stolen car. He doesn't say anything, doesn't need to. This is enough comfort for now. He knows Jongin doesn't need placating, doesn't need patronizing—he knows Jongin was capable of making the shot, and that he didn't, and that he'll spend the rest of their trip feeling guilty about the missed opportunity. 

"He shouldn't know about us. That's… not something he would have known. He never should have known—about Japan, and you, there's no way he'd make that connection on his own."

Jongdae hangs a sharp left, blowing through a stop sign at a deserted intersection. "Did you miss a bug when you checked the phone?" he asks when he's straightened the car up, glancing up at Taemin in the rearview mirror.

"No, nothing. The casing didn't have room for anything except the shitty GPS tracker. Wasn't even a good one, it only gave you a five-block radius. Not very precise at all. Donghyun must have been walking around all night in the snow looking for us."

"Then how?"

"I don't know," Taemin says, troubled, the first time he's looked genuinely concerned since they set foot back in the city. "And I really wish I did."

☠☠☠

Junmyeon seems downright furious when he answers the door, only to find them at his clinic again. "I have patients here," he hisses, even as his eyes fall onto Wonshik's ruined face. "I'm assuming you had something to do with that explosion across town, Taemin, it's on the news already—"

"Doc, I promise, it's not what you think. We'll explain everything, but you've got to hide us."

Junmyeon looks at Jongin helplessly. "Go wait in my apartment," he says finally. "Take the stairs at the back of the hall."

 

Junmyeon's living quarters are situated behind the clinic and are predictably modest given his tendency to treat those who can't afford to pay him. He's got a lone futon in the middle of a mostly-bare room, the few shelves stacked with medical textbooks. There's a heap of clothing in the corner that comes up to Jongin's waist. Taemin points it out, laughing: _See, it could be worse. I'm not that bad._

When Junmyeon returns, he's got Baekhyun in tow. He slides the deadbolt shut behind them, making sure the heavy curtains are drawn across the windows.

"I wasn't afraid of people coming around, but with the way all of you look," Junmyeon says, "maybe I should be."

Baekhyun's unusually sullen and doesn't make an immediate beeline for Soojung, which seems to make Jongdae uncomfortable enough to cross the room and stand at Baekhyun's side. Instead, Baekhyun stands in the corner near the door, arms crossed over his chest and staring darkly at the floor. Jongin doesn't quite know what to make of it—the plan had been a disaster, and Wolf had gotten away, but they're alive, and they've done enough to ensure the police have no choice but to pursue Ssang Yong Pa for the damage caused to Chanyeol's restaurant. It's not everything they'd hoped for, but it's not a total loss.

Junmyeon gets to work, cleaning Wonshik's face and splinting his nose. Taemin watches with morbid fascination, mouth open as Junmyeon manipulates Wonshik's nose back into place and tapes it up.

"Congratulations, Wonshik, you're going to be even uglier while that nose heals," Taemin says when Junmyeon's finished. This startles a laugh out of Wonshik, which seems to be very painful for him.

"Fuck you," he says, and then sobers up. "I'm sorry," he says again. "I swear, Taemin, I swear on my life, I'd never betray you. Somebody's watching you, somebody's already got all this information on you. Jongin, too. By the time Wolf found me, he'd unraveled the whole thing. I didn't know what to say to him—"

"I know," Taemin says. "It's okay, Wonshik. I've never doubted you."

Wonshik nods and looks at the floor, lost in thought. Junmyeon turns his attention to Jongin, gesturing for him to take a seat. Jongin tries to wave him off.

"I'm okay. Check Taemin first."

Junmyeon swipes at Jongin's neck with two fingers. They come back bloody. "Noble, but sit down. You're going to need stitches for that head wound."

Taemin looks positively delighted that the tables have turned. He forces Jongin into a seated position, hands braced on his shoulders. "I can help. I'll hold him still for you, Doc."

Junmyeon shoots Taemin a warning look under his eyebrows and goes back to examining Jongin's scalp. "You've definitely got a concussion, too," he says, flashing a light in Jongin's eyes. Jongin groans, feeling the squeeze of Taemin's fingertips on his shoulders.

"I feel fine—"

"What is it with you guys?" Junmyeon snaps, going back to his bag for supplies. "Nobody's impressed by these heroics. You are not invincible."

"Yes I am," Taemin retorts. "You can't prove that I'm not." 

"They're both idiots," Soojung says. "Do you have any tranquilizers?"

Junmyeon flashes a rare grin in her direction. "That can be arranged. I'm releasing them into your care, I take it?"

Baekhyun huffs audibly. Jongin cranes his neck around to get a better look at Baekhyun. "Hyung? Is everything alright?"

"Chanyeol and Kyungsoo and Yura are alright, yes," he says tersely, still not looking at anyone. "Glad everyone's alive, although it was so _fucking stupid_ that this even happened in the first place. We had a _plan_ —"

"Oh, here we go," Soojung says, and the reason for Baekhyun's irritation suddenly becomes crystal clear. "Baekhyun, we had no choice. The plan was blown, we had to come up with something else before they were all killed—"

"You had a choice!" Baekhyun explodes like he's been holding it in for hours, his anger simmering below the surface since the moment the job went sour. "You did not need to go into that building—"

She holds up a hand. The room has gone uncomfortably silent in the middle of their argument, as if any sudden movement will draw a third party into this fight, forced to choose sides between a warring couple. "I can't believe you're doing this," she says. "We survived."

"I told you to wait for Jongdae! I told you to let Jongdae handle it."

"There was no time! He wasn't in position! I was! You were going to risk Jongin's life—"

"Either you go home right now, or I will," Baekhyun cuts in. Jongin has never seen him this angry before and it's frightening, sitting between two of his best friends and watching them rip each other apart like this.

"Don't you dare tell me what to do, Byun Baekhyun. They're your friends too. I _had_ to—"

"You cannot just run into a live building with a bomb anymore, Soojung, or are you forgetting your daughter? _Our_ daughter? We're accountable to her first, not—these guys, I'm sorry—"

"You think I'd forget about my own child?"

Baekhyun throws his hands in the air. "I don't know. Jongin's back and you've been running around playing secret agent with him and Taemin. I thought we agreed that you'd handle the intelligence and leave them to the dangerous stuff—"

" _You_ agreed. I didn't."

"You can't do what they do, Soojung! Nobody should do what they do!" Baekhyun says, gesturing angrily at Jongin and Taemin. "What, you want to join them? Help Taemin get back into the gun trade? Give up all of this and go work for this Hong guy?"

Soojung gets to her feet angrily, her fists clenched at her sides. "Are you forgetting I'm not some secretary? That I actually went through the same training you did? And I scored higher on my aptitude test than you did, Baekhyun, so don't treat me like I'm somebody else—"

"I _know_ you can do this. But accidents happen— _today_ fucking happened—and we've got a child. There's no accounting for every circumstance, Soojung, and I just—if she grows up without a mother because of this I will never forgive you."

Soojung's visibly hurt by Baekhyun's words. He waits for her to respond, and, realizing he will get no satisfaction from her in the middle of a crowded room, turns to unfasten the deadbolt.

"Where are you going?" she asks, her voice tiny, meek. "Baekhyun, don't go, I'm sorry, it was just—I was scared, and I knew I could help—"

Baekhyun's not interested in hearing it, at least not while he's this angry. "Someone's got to be back at the house. Someone's got to establish an alibi for Chanyeol and Yura so they're not arrested for arson! _Someone's_ got to think of our daughter, but I think that's going to be me, isn't it?"

She closes her eyes. "I'll come too," she says quietly. "We can talk in the car."

"Don't—I don't—just stay," Baekhyun says, his voice cracking for the first time in this exchange. He pauses, taking a few shallow breaths until his composure returns. "Stay with Jongin, make sure he's alright. You're right. I'm glad you all made it out."

"I'm fine, Baekhyun, really—" Jongin starts, but Baekhyun's already gone, leaving an awkward, stony silence in his wake.

☠☠☠

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello everyone! i'm back! i'm really, really sorry for the extended absence. without getting into the gory details of my real life, some shake-ups at work in november meant that my workload tripled while the hours in the day stayed the same. i'm still committed to finishing this and my other projects, i promise, it'll just be slow going (though hopefully not as bad as this latest stretch without updates). the last scene in the whole thing is finished, so i am not directionless! if you want to come talk to me on twitter or check on my progress at any point my username is @fytaekai. thanks for sticking with me, i love you guys ❤


	14. Chapter 14

Soojung slips out of the room while Junmyeon's in the middle of checking on Taemin. Jongin watches her leave, still holding a swath of gauze over the split in his lip.

"Go see if she's okay," Taemin says, very quietly. He's not really looking at Jongin, his eyes focusing somewhere past Junmyeon's shoulder, but his hand finds Jongin's knee immediately and squeezes it. 

"I—she probably needs a minute." Jongin dabs at his mouth a few more times. The worst of the bleeding seems to have tapered off, although it still pulls and stings every time he licks his lips or tries to smile.

"Go anyway. I'm sure Wonshik will step in and save me when Doc inevitably tries to end my life."

"Taemin, I went to medical school," Junmyeon says, snapping on a fresh pair of gloves with an unusual amount of menace. "You might want to remember that I know lots of ways to kill you, and I doubt anyone would notice in time to save you."

Interest flickers in Taemin's eyes. He pretends to mull this over with a playful tilt of his head. "Care to share your secrets?"

Taemin's obviously feeling fine, so Jongin goes. He follows Soojung out the back hallway and into Junmyeon's office just off the spot where the corridor splits off and leads to the clinic's entrance.

She doesn't turn around but she knows who it is, anyway. "Just... give me a second," she says, gripping the edge of Junmyeon's desk so hard her knuckles go white.

"You can tell me it's none of my business," he begins after a long pause, hoping it was time enough for her to finish gathering her thoughts.

"It's none of your business," she says bitterly, posture rigid and unwelcoming.

"You're fighting because of me. It's a little bit my business." He wants to touch her shoulders, her elbow, get her to smile again, but he doesn't know how to fix it when it's her marriage and he's keeping them away from being happy, safe, and blissfully ignorant.

"Don't tell me I need to stop," she warns him. "Baekhyun was out of line. I'm an adult, and I chose to help you. You are my friends. _Our_ friends. It was the right call."

"I won't," Jongin says.

"And I'm not a bad mother for making that call."

"You're an amazing mother, Soojung, come on, Baekhyun wasn't saying that—"

"Yes he was!" She stops herself just short of pushing the stacks of paperwork off the desk. Her fingers tremble uselessly at her sides, fighting back a full-blown frustrated tantrum with every ounce of her strength. "Don't treat me like I'm just anybody. I trained for this, same as you. Same as Baekhyun."

"I won't. I know you can handle it."

She draws a slow breath, her voice steadier now. "He—he wants another one. We just started trying last month, but then I put it on hold after everything started to fall apart. I don't—I can't—I need to part of the team until we get this situation with you sorted out, and I can't do that if I'm pregnant again."

Jongin doesn't know what to say to her after a confession like that. She's putting her entire life on hold for him. No wonder Baekhyun's reaching the end of his patience with this ordeal. "I'm sorry, I—I didn't know—"

"Why would you? We never told you. It's irrelevant, anyway. This needs to be taken care of before we can get on with our lives. And I never would have forgiven myself if I wasn't there and something went wrong, or if I didn't do everything I could to get you out of there."

"Thank you," he says, finally touching her. Her shoulder feels so narrow in his palm. She's still covered in dirt and debris from the explosion, bits of plaster and wood from the window frame caught in her hair. He plucks a splinter free and tosses it aside.

She turns. "Your face, Jongin," she says, thumb and forefinger holding his chin still. "Does it hurt?"

"Yeah," he says, unashamed to admit it in front of her. "A lot."

"Where are you going to go, looking like that?"

It hits Jongin that his usual fallback hideout, Chanyeol's apartment, is gone. Forever. He hadn't thought that far ahead.

"We'll be fine," he says anyway, like he'd already come up with a plan. "We'll go back to the safe house."

"You can't go there now. We have no idea if they had eyes on you. If Wolf's in the wind, then we have to stick together." She turns around, finally, and she's pulled herself back together. "And look at you—now you're both injured. Your head..."

He bows his head obediently, letting her examine it with gentle sweeps of her fingertips. "It's fine. Junmyeon's much better at this than I am."

"You're being stupid," she says gently, patting his face. "Of course you'll come back home with us. It was... a weird day, but we can handle it. Baekhyun's not mad at you, he's mad at me—"

"No, Soojung. I think... for Baekhyun's sake, he needs some time to cool off. Your family needs some time together without us hanging around and causing problems for you. This is _our_ fight, not yours."

"Jongin. They did this to all of us."

"Funny, because I think I'm the only one here that went to jail."

A long, awkward pause ensues. Jongin feels bad for lashing out, especially at Soojung, but he can't take it back. He's still bitter. When he gets his hands on Natalia, he's not so sure he'll be benevolent enough to get her side of the story before he snaps her fucking neck. He'll never get his life back, but he can walk away knowing that if she's dead, it'll all be over. She'll never do it to another operative ever again.

"I'm sorry." He shakes it off, offering her a smile. "We'll come by tomorrow after we meet up with Hong's contact. We can debrief you then, regroup, and we'll figure things out from there. If we need backup, you'll be our first call. I promise."

She schools her face into a smile, albeit a small one. "Just so you know, I'm grateful to Taemin. And I'm glad you're alive, and I'd go back into the building if I had to do it over again. I don't regret coming to save you, no matter what Baekhyun says. It was the right call."

"You should rethink that," Jongin says, grinning a little. "With all the trouble I've gotten into, it's not worth it."

Her expression sobers. "Oh, Jongin."

"Mmm?"

"Don't you get it?" She kisses him on the cheek tenderly, her mouth leaving a small damp mark when she pulls back. She smudges it away with her thumb. "You're our family too. You _and_ Taemin. It's never a question for us. We'll do whatever it takes. Just because the team's been decommissioned doesn't mean we stop looking out for each other."

He closes his eyes, thinking back to the last time she'd visited him in jail. It was cold outside, just before Christmas, and she was pregnant enough that she couldn't hide it, even with a winter coat on. He stared at the snowflakes laced through her hair like tiny crystals, wishing for so much and having words for none of it. She'd said the same thing then. Family. Like it was just that easy to accept, after everything he'd put them through, intentionally or not. She told him about Christmas preparations and how Baekhyun was more excited to decorate the nursery than she was. It was stupid, nothing but useless conversation filler without any substance or any acknowledgement of his situation, but it was the only thing he had to hang onto for so long.

"We're finishing this," he promises. Eyes wide open now. "One way or another, this will end. I'll make sure of it." 

Family means they're supposed to protect each other. After bringing chaos to everything he's touched, he's been on the receiving end of this particular kindness from Soojung and Baekhyun for far too long. It's time to return the favor and get out of their way so they can go back to the life they're supposed to be living. The one that he's not a part of, can't be a part of, not anymore.

☠☠☠

Jongdae volunteers to take them under the guise of keeping an eye on Jongin's concussion. "Go home," he tells Soojung, slipping her enough money for the cab fare. "Tell Baekhyun I'll see him in the morning. Call me if you need anything."

So they end up back at Jongdae's apartment which is barely big enough for a bachelor, let alone an ailing pair of fugitives, but they make do. Jongdae's in a new, nicer unit across the neighborhood now, but Jongin still recognizes things from the old place: pictures of Jongdae with his mother, the stacks of hardcover books and the paperwork scattered on every surface, his ridiculous espresso machine—his _baby_ , if babies were made of gleaming chrome and stainless steel—claiming most of the counter space in his tiny bachelor's kitchen.

Jongin takes the couch and dozes while sitting up, Taemin's head in his lap, because the couch is too narrow to lie side-by-side with Taemin the way they're accustomed to sleeping. It's not like he'd be getting very much rest either way; Jongdae insists on waking Jongin every few hours to blind him with a tiny LED flashlight he keeps on his keyring, asking him a series of inane questions to check on his mental status in a whisper so loud that it's a wonder Taemin doesn't stir. 

Jongin finally gives up trying to pretend to be asleep around the same time he hears Jongdae get in the shower. Taemin sleeps on, stretched out on the couch by himself. Jongin sits up at the table, rubbing his temple and nursing a glass of water. He doesn't feel too bad, all things considered. A little achier than usual, but he'll live. He's too consumed by the job to worry about the physical pain. He'll have plenty of time to recuperate once this shit has been put to bed once and for all. 

Jongdae comes in fully-dressed in his suit, ready for work. He ruffles Jongin's hair on his way past to make coffee. "Wasn't expecting you to be up this early. How are you feeling?"

"I've felt better."

"You look exhausted."

Jongin nearly smiles. "Well, I tried to get some sleep, but somebody kept waking me up last night."

Jongdae laughs, cabinet doors clattering as he looks for a clean mug. "Doctor's orders. You want coffee?"

"Mmm. No, thanks." Jongin rests his chin on his fist, eyes low across the cluttered surface of Jongdae's kitchen table. "Heard anything from Baekhyun?"

Jongdae slides into the seat across from Jongin. "No. I assume no news is good news, though."

"Nothing about Chanyeol?"

"Nothing." Jongdae takes a long sip and immediately winces at the temperature. Some things never change. He's always been too impatient to wait. "Look, Jongin. A lot happened yesterday, and we'll have to deal with the ramifications, but—I just want you to know, Soojung was right."

Jongin picks his head up. "Hyung?"

"Tactically speaking, she made the right call," Jongdae says, spooning sugar into his coffee at an alarming rate. "I understand Baekhyun's concerns, but Soojung did the right thing. I wasn't in place and we didn't have eyes in there. She had the best plan. The only plan, really, since walking away wasn't an option."

"I feel terrible. Baekhyun was _so angry_. I mean, maybe he's right—"

"Don't let Soojung hear you say that."

Jongin laughs. "I won't. You know what I meant, though. Not just Soojung, but all of you—Chanyeol, Yura, Kyungsoo. Everyone's necks were on the line yesterday because I let them get the drop on me."

"It isn't your fault, Jongin. You're part of the team. We don't leave anyone behind. And Baekhyun knows those risks. We'd do the same for him, or Soojung—any of us. That's how this works."

Even hearing that from Jongdae—his hyung, his handler, the person who used to have sole responsibility for his welfare—it does little to dispel the guilt Jongin's been feeling since last night. "I guess," he says vaguely, not particularly in the mood for this discussion. He sighs. "I can't believe we didn't see it coming."

"There's a lot we didn't realize. Wolf's involvement with Natalia, for one. It doesn't add up—what would she want with a washed-up gangster like him? He doesn't exactly have the political connections she's looking for, in light of how big her network appears to be, and Ssang Yong Pa doesn't have nearly the influence it used to."

"Maybe it doesn't have anything to do with his business," Jongin says. "Maybe it was just a convenient way to let us know she's watching."

"That still doesn't explain how she knew in the first place. It seems like for every answer we get, six more questions come up. We just keep digging and digging and haven't hit the bottom yet."

"Maybe when we get our hands on her she can tell us how she's been pulling the strings for all of this—"

"Whoa, Jongin. Hold on. You're not seriously still going after her, are you? After all of this? We're not prepared for that kind of operation. We've clearly underestimated her by quite a bit."

"What choice do we have? It's never going to end, hyung, not unless we _do_ something. And Wolf, too— _dammit_ ," Jongin breaks off, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I had him. He was _right there_. It should have been a clean shot."

"You got his hand. He's injured."

"Not badly enough to go to a hospital. If I'd just taken a second before I pulled the trigger—"

"Stop, Jongin. Another second and he would've been gone. You had to try." He pauses. "This has been a disaster," he says softly. "I'm sorry."

Jongin cocks an eyebrow. " _You're_ sorry? For what? I'm the one that missed our chance to take him out."

"We thought it would be easier than this. It was supposed to be a straightforward thing, in and out, none of this—I mean, you're hurt, Taemin's hurt, and we're in so deep without a game plan, and I just—"

"I can handle it."

"I know you can. That's never been a question, Jongin. Doesn't mean you should have to, though." Jongdae drains the rest of his coffee and rises to his feet. "You're still meeting with this informant of Hong's, yeah? You should stay back tonight and rest, but I know that's not going to happen, is it?"

"It's just a meeting."

"You've said that before."

"Taemin'll be there with me this time."

Jongdae sighs. "Fine. You really trust this Hong guy?"

"Taemin does. And I trust Taemin."

"You know," Jongdae says, pulling a hat down over his ears. "Since you seem so determined to stay in the life, you should think about coming back on the NIS payroll once this is all over. We could give you the same deal we've given Moonkyu—protect you with a code name, everything. They don't have to know it's you."

"A confidential informant for the NIS," Jongin says slowly. "Me. The national traitor."

"Well, sure. We can't grant clearance anymore, but your training—you've still got it. You always were a natural," Jongdae says. "This is part of you." He shrugs, looking a little embarrassed. "I know, it sounds like a bad idea. I just miss working with you. This whole trip has been terrible, but still, I think about my new team… and it's just not the same."

Jongin nods. He misses the old team, too. They were all he had for ten long years. But still. He can't go back now. He looks over his shoulder at Taemin, still fast asleep on the couch, a blanket tucked up under his chin. "Thanks, hyung. I appreciate it, but—I didn't leave the NIS on good terms, and I'd rather not open that door again."

"I know. I figured I'd put it out there, just in case," Jongdae says softly, his hand on Jongin's elbow. "It's okay. We're all getting too old for this."

"It's not that I don't appreciate it, but—"

"But this isn't your life anymore," Jongdae finishes.

"Yeah." 

Jongdae squares his shoulders and looks away. "You know, I… I was really mad about what you did, for a long time. Longer than I should have been." His gaze falls on Taemin. "I'm starting to realize that we don't have more information than they want us to have." He looks back up and smiles. "And I know it's late, but for what it's worth, I'm sorry." He jerks his head in Taemin's direction. "He's alright."

 

The minute Jongdae leaves, Taemin rolls over and yawns noisily. He rubs his eyes with his fists, but Jongin can tell when he's acting and knows by the way Taemin's smiling up at him that he'd been awake for the whole conversation and heard everything Jongdae said.

"Good morning," Jongin says, choosing not to acknowledge it. "Jongdae left coffee for you, if you want."

"I do want. But come here first," he says, waving Jongin over. "How's your head?" he asks, pushing Jongin's hair out of his eyes when he kneels beside him. "What's our address back in New York?"

"We live in New York?" Jongin asks, and then laughs at Taemin's startled expression. "God, shut up, I'm kidding. Not you, too. I had enough of Jongdae waking me up last night."

Taemin laughs, rolling over to face the back of the couch. "Fine! I'm going back to sleep. Enjoy your brain damage!"

 

He gets up eventually and follows Jongin into the bathroom for a shower. Jongin had been hoping for a moment alone to pull himself together but instead Taemin's a foot away when the nerves and exhaustion from the past week all rise to the surface. He sobs out loud and then suddenly Taemin's right there, wrapping his arms around Jongin's waist, chuckling. 

"It's okay," he teases, pushing Jongin underneath the warm spray. "It's just water. Don't be scared." He keeps his hands on him for comfort anyway, rubbing his biceps, his shoulders, his hands slithering down Jongin's neck to frame his collarbone.

"Shut up," Jongin says, embarrassed. He elbows out of Taemin's embrace and immediately regrets the hot water on his scalp. Of course. He'd briefly forgotten about his head injury, but the searing pain reminds him. He winces and steps aside.

"Easy," Taemin cautions, kissing the wing of Jongin's shoulder blade with a loud smacking noise, cartoonish and bright. It's not that he's sadistic enough to enjoy Jongin's pain, but as the injury isn't life-threatening, it's a chance for him to get back at Jongin for fussing over his gunshot wound. 

Still. He knows when to rein it in. He sees the annoyance pucker Jongin's face and lets his hand skim down to rub Jongin's sore back with the washcloth, humming an old song into Jongin's armpit when he reaches out to pull him back in for the embrace they both desperately need.

☠☠☠

Taemin's got the television on when Jongin finally emerges from the bathroom, running his fingers through his damp, messy tangles trying to comb them into submission.

"I'm assuming you've been in touch with Hong's guy today, right?" Jongin asks.

Taemin doesn't answer, his eyes riveted to the screen. Jongin sits down beside him, going down hard on his knees there in the middle of the living room's slick floor. Taemin doesn't flinch at the sound of kneecaps hitting hardwood, too engrossed in the news report crawling across the screen.

They're doing a feature on the bombing at Chanyeol's restaurant. The reporter's standing in front of the blown-out windows and the charred, twisted remains of the dining room, microphone clutched to her chest. Jongin's barely paying attention to what she's saying, too busy thinking about how sorry for Chanyeol he's feeling and how much it hurts to see the restaurant in that condition, until a picture flashes across the screen. Young Taemin. The same years-old one the police department had on file.

"They found a body," Taemin says, sounding hoarse. Deja vu hits Jongin sharply, remembering these exact words from Jongdae five years ago, the first time Taemin ‘died'. "Well. What's left of one."

"It's Donghyun," Jongin says. "He didn't make it out in time, there's no way—he was trying to pull you back in when it went off. He was closer to the bomb's blast radius than anything else in that building."

Taemin smiles grimly. "I know. There isn't enough of him to positively identify one way or the other, but given the mountain of circumstantial evidence and the fact I've been spotted in the area recently, they feel comfortable ID'ing what's left as… me." He looks shaken, but tries to pretend that hearing himself talked about in the past tense isn't bothering him. "At least Chanyeol's safe now."

"Is he?" Jongin slides closer. 

"Sure. By the time Chanyeol rebuilds, Wolf will be dead. Ssang Yong Pa won't have cause to bother him anymore."

The casual way he says it makes Jongin's blood run cold. "But yesterday—Wonshik said that he was going to go underground. Nobody's going to be able to find him for months."

"I know what he said. I know that we came here to do a job, and we're not leaving until it's finished. And trust me, I know Wolf better than he thinks I do. It won't take months." Taemin blinks, and the flinty look in his eyes disappears as quickly as it had appeared. He holds this part of himself separate from the person he is when he's with Jongin, but the glimpses of what Taemin's capable of when he's bound and determined—Jongin's not sure if he's enamored or terrified. Maybe equal parts of both. Maybe that's Taemin's charm entirely.

Jongin understands this determination, shares it. His own motivations for finding Natalia are much the same. They're both looking for revenge. It's little consolation for the irreparable damage both Wolf and Natalia have done, but—Jongin gets it. There's a job to be done and he's all in, now.

Taemin's attention returns to the television screen. It's a mob scene, a school of reporters crushing up against the front gate of an unfamiliar house. "No," Taemin whispers, his eyes wide. "No, how did they— _no._ "

"What? What is it?"

Taemin turns it off and sits blinking at the floor. "That was—my parents live there. That's their house." He swallows audibly. "They don't deserve this shame. They shouldn't have to take responsibility for me, especially after all this time."

"They don't think you're a monster, they _can't_. They're your family, they must know that you're not what they're saying you are."

"No, they know I am a monster. And they're right." Taemin shrugs. "I might not be dead _yet_ , I may not have bombed _that_ building, but I'm not innocent, Jongin. You know that."

"Do you think—shouldn't someone should tell them that you're not really dead? We can send them a note, maybe. You can write them—"

"Jongin, stop. I've been dead to them for years. I just keep causing them problems when I pop up in their lives, so it's better this way. It's better that they believe I'm not around anymore."

"You don't mean that. What if, some day—"

"No," he says gently before Jongin can even finish his sentence. "It would be cruel. I've done enough damage." He assesses Jongin for a moment. "Can I show you something?"

Jongin nods. "Anything."

"Let's go."

☠☠☠

Although he really should have guessed, Jongin doesn't realize where they are and what they're doing until they're halfway through the door of the cinerarium. He hangs back, eyes cast low, suddenly embarrassed for even bringing it up in the first place. It's clearly a sore subject with Taemin, although if he's sharing this part of himself with Jongin then that's it, this is everything, every secret shame, every pain Taemin's been holding inside himself.

His urn.

"I'm surprised the reporters haven't found it yet. They will, though," Taemin says, taking Jongin's hand. "We can't stay long. I used to come here every few weeks, back during the year after I left Thailand. I don't really know why. It's weird, you know. Seeing my name there." He pokes at the glass. He's got a mask pulled over his nose and mouth again, obscuring most of his features. He's been on the news all morning and it's a risky move to be out in public, especially here, especially now. But Jongin can tell that there's some part of Taemin that needs to make this pilgrimage one last time. "I wonder if they'll put Donghyun inside it now, or if they'll just keep it empty."

Jongin's stomach twists and clenches at the thought of Donghyun's remains ending up in the space meant to be Taemin's final resting place. It's a stupid thing to be upset about considering that Donghyun's dead, rather cruelly so, and Taemin is here, alive despite everything, his thumb pushing anxious circles into the palm of Jongin's hand. Still, Jongin can't help but feel wrong about the whole thing anyway. Donghyun doesn't deserve to rest under Taemin's name. And Jongin can't imagine that there's a family out there that denies Taemin's existence.

The boyhood picture of Taemin propped up against the urn peers back at him from behind the glass. Jongin feels lost even though Taemin's right next to him, one fingertip hooked into the soft flesh of Jongin's wrist for reassurance, although if it's for him or for Jongin, Jongin isn't quite sure. 

Taemin's so young in that picture—even younger than the one they've been using on the news, taken in elementary school, maybe. Hair hanging in his eyes, perched up on his knees, staring directly into the camera with a burning intensity to his eyes. It's an expression Jongin's all too familiar with, even now. But this version of Taemin doesn't have the darkness or the hurt lurking within him. He's bright-eyed and attentive, probably a model student, or at least not the sort of kid that would have been labeled _a troublemaker_. Before the gang got their hooks in him. _This_ Taemin, the little boy, the innocent one, is the Taemin his parents have been mourning for decades.

Jongin shuffles back, feeling the hot squeeze of panic in his throat. The reflection of Taemin's eyes watching him from the glass pane isn't helping calm him down, either. He suddenly, very badly, needs to touch Taemin's face just to reassure himself that this isn't real. It's just a dead memory of the person Taemin used to be.

"Can we leave?" he asks instead, trying not to give himself away.

"Sure, yeah," Taemin says. "It's creepy here, anyway."

They turn. It's not until they're on their way out that Jongin notices the young man coming in through the other door. He catches Jongin's eye immediately because he's the _spitting image_ of Taemin. Taemin spots him at exactly the same point and ducks his chin to his chest to further hide his eyes on their way out, his grip turning rigid around Jongin's fingers.

"Wait," Jongin says. He knows by the way Taemin keeps sneaking glances over his shoulder, trying to catch a glimpse of the man again—it's Taesun. Taemin's older brother. He'd been carrying a small child on his hip, probably around the same age as Jonghee or perhaps a little older. Apparently, Taemin's got a nephew, although in all their time together he's never mentioned the existence of one to Jongin, which means he probably didn't even know he was an uncle. "Wait, we should go back."

"No Jongin. Come on," he says, his voice hard. "We have to go."

"Don't you want to—"

"No, Jongin. It's unnecessary. I told you, it's better this way."

"But your mother must be so upset—"

"She's been upset for years."

"You have a nephew—did you _know_ about him?" 

Taemin half-nods. So he's been keeping tabs on them after all. Jongin really shouldn't be surprised anymore by the things Taemin chooses to do. It's perfectly aligned with his nature: Taemin wants to be in control by making a point of making everything his business. Jongin's just surprised he'd willingly put himself in that kind of pain. Not knowing hurts so much less.

"He doesn't know me. Doesn't need to. I can't be there for him the way I should be. I'm a criminal. No kid needs to be saddled with that kind of person for an uncle. It's better for everyone."

Jongin swallows. His tongue feels like lead. "But." Taemin's right and he's being maddeningly rational about the whole thing, but— "But still."

"What about you? Didn't you tell Yura not to tell your sisters you were back in town? Why is that?"

Jongin hums. "Well. Because… because—it's just easier."

He can't see his mouth but Jongin recognizes the sad smile anyway when Taemin's eyes crinkle at the corners, the divot between his brow deepening. "Exactly," Taemin says. "You understand."

Jongin puts his chin on Taemin's shoulder and wraps his arms around him. It's unfair, all of it, and there's nothing in the world that can change anything.

"Look. It would be selfish of me to expect to be in their lives again," Taemin says into Jongin's shirt. "Even if it might make me feel better for a second, to get to talk to them again—as much as I miss them, I had my chance to be a part of the family, but I chose this. Letting them believe that I'm really dead this time is the kindest thing I could ever do for them."

Jongin realizes he's been doing the same thing to his family. He'd started closing them off when he'd gone to jail to shield them from the worst of it. Turning his back on them meant that they could move on with their lives without having to worry about the trouble he keeps finding again and again. 

"Do you want to go back home and see your family?" Taemin asks, reading Jongin's mind. "I'll go, if that's what you want, I'll go with you. You don't have to hide—they don't think you're dead, you can still—"

"It's probably better that I don't, right?" Jongin says. "It's—"

"It's better that way," Taemin finishes, slipping his hand in Jongin's back pocket, pulling him closer. "Yeah. I know."

☠☠☠

They meet Hong's contact out in the warehouse district. The meeting spot isn't far from where Taemin used to hide out, back before he and Jongin reconnected. This particular stretch seems to be deserted, but Jongin isn't taking any chances and scouts the location three times before they move in closer.

"I told you, Timo's got it covered," Taemin assures him, even as his face is still obscured by that mask. And as if summoned by Taemin speaking his name, the sliding door across the room grates open and Hong's guy shoulders his way through, arm raised in greeting. He's got a scarf looped around the lower half of his face to fend off the cold and so Jongin doesn't see the familiar scar etched into his cheek until he's finished unwinding it, letting it drop to the floor.

"Kim Jongin. How the hell are you?" Moonkyu says, beaming, and he's clearly the only person in the room unfazed by this revelation. Jongin's reeling with the shock, all the details he'd missed before crashing down on him all at once—the new boss Moonkyu had spoken of, the convenient timing of his disappearance, the fact that he'd never given up chasing Natalia even though he'd been out of touch with Jongdae and Baekhyun all these years. It all fits. Or, at least—he should have suspected a deeper connection once he'd learned that Hong's been aware of his identity all along.

"Did you know?" Jongin asks Taemin, and the look on his face is enough: no, he hadn't the slightest clue that Timo, who he'd been working with on Hong's behalf, was one and the same with Kim Moonkyu, former asset to the NIS. Moonkyu, who naturally would know Natalia better than anyone. Moonkyu, who's been taking this as personally as Jongin, perhaps more so, because he's been out here alone, without the support system Jongin's been fortunate enough to rely on. Moonkyu, who's been clear-headed enough to keep doing the job he set out to do, without taking time to retreat into himself.

"Hong tracked me down shortly after your trial," Moonkyu says. "He wanted to hear what actually went down in Colombia from someone who was there. And who better to tell that story than me?" When he smiles, the skin of his cheek puckers, elongating the pink, slashed line drawn from his eye to the corner of his mouth. "He agreed the details didn't add up, and I was willing to go where he asked. Not like I had anything better to do after the NIS stopped taking my calls."

"You asshole. You should have told me."

"Jongin. What's rule number one, always?"

"Need to know. You think I didn't need to know?"

"I was under strict instructions to keep my mouth shut unless it became necessary to let you in on this one. As long as you weren't in the field with me, what did it matter?"

"And what about Taemin?"

"I'm sorry," Moonkyu says, proffering a handshake. Taemin accepts it hesitantly. "Originally, we weren't ever supposed to meet, so when those plans changed I just went with the easiest story. You know how Hong likes to keep his associates separate if he can help it."

"I do," Taemin says, thawing. 

"Where have you _been_?" Jongin demands. "Jongdae's been trying to find you since you missed our meeting. We weren't sure what was going on, if you were in trouble, or lying low, or if you were dead—you couldn't have sent him a message to let him know where you were?"

"No, I couldn't. No time. Hong called to tell me Natalia had been spotted and I needed to leave that minute. Kind of hard to juggle international conspiracies _and_ my appointment book, Jongin, so I do apologize," Moonkyu teases, dimpling. "I'll be sure to speak to Jongdae about it as soon as we wrap up here. Don't you worry."

"Asshole," Jongin says again, but fondly this time. "What happened to her?"

"Hong said she'd been spotted in Chongqing. From her movements, it looks like she'd been tracking a target."

"When we met, you said—that something was going to happen this month. Was—was that who it was? Who was her target?"

"That's what we thought, but I never got close enough to figure out her patterns. I think she knew I was following her, or maybe she had back-up, or a tail or something. I only watched her for a day before she got spooked and abandoned whatever she'd been working on. I followed her, thinking maybe she'd lead me back to her lair, but it's like I told Hong. We got to the border and she disappeared somewhere in Russia. Probably had a safe house or a contact, but she went underground."

"And turned up here."

"I was expecting to follow her back to Colombia, or the States. Seoul's a deviation from her usual travel plans. We don't have any record of her _ever_ being here before now," Moonkyu admits. "We have no idea what she's doing here."

"Coming after Taemin, obviously," Jongin says. "She knew about Wolf. She knew to tip him off about us. She—I think she didn't plan on us getting out of there alive."

"Yeah, you're all over the news," Moonkyu tells Taemin. "You look pretty good for a dead guy."

"Thanks. I'm trying a new face wash," Taemin says dryly. "Look. Obviously she's been keeping tabs on Hong—or us?—somehow. She knows we're coming after her and we're a threat to—whatever her organization is, or whatever they're doing." He gives Moonkyu an appraising look. "Before I knew—I mean, you know her already, right? She tried to kill you once, too. Maybe it's you, maybe you're the unfinished business—"

"It's not just me. I've been way off-grid, and she's been working for—whatever this black ops thing is—this whole time." Moonkyu leans against the wall, an easy pose, one elbow supporting his weight. It's incongruous, the way he seems so at ease when everything in their world is so fraught. He's beyond it now, treating the worst of scenarios as just another day at the office. _He would have made a good agent,_ Jongin thinks. _He should have been one of ours._

Taemin fumbles in his pockets, looking for his pack of cigarettes. "So, what, then. She knows about Hong? Or is it just us?"

"An organization this well-funded, this connected? Safe to say she's aware of it all. She's better than the NIS—sorry, Jongin, no offense intended—"

"None taken."

"—and she's got resources we can only dream of. It's hard to imagine a world where she's got all of that at her disposal and she isn't at least peripherally aware of someone actively trying to bring her down."

Taemin locates a cigarette but can't find his lighter—probably lost forever in the explosion yesterday. "You make it sound like Hong's throwing pennies at this."

Moonkyu smiles, offering Taemin a light. "Hong isn't willing to kill people to get information that way that she is. That changes the game—that changes _everything._ There is no line for her, as far as I can tell, and she's becoming even more unpredictable, which makes her very dangerous."

"We've got to kill her," Taemin says, eyes flashing. Tendrils of smoke curl out of his nostrils, which just amplifies the murderous look on his face. Jongin puts an arm around him to steady him. Taemin doesn't shrug him off but he does press on, voice rising in volume a notch. "The next time we see her on the street, none of this coy wait-and-see shit, we just need to put her down."

"No," Moonkyu says. "We can't kill her yet. She's our only link to this organization. She dies, and all of our prospects die with her. She's been sloppy, and she'll make more mistakes if we keep the pressure on her. We need to take her alive."

Taemin scowls, taking a long drag from his cigarette. "I don't agree."

"Hong does. You think he wants us running around the world trying to trace her steps because we got impatient and jumped the gun?"

"I think that's what we have been doing, and it's obviously not working."

"Exactly. This is the first real lead we've had. She's out in the open. She's the face of this organization, at least from what we're seeing now." Moonkyu pushes himself back into a standing position. He's taller than Taemin, just a little bit. "Look. I'm all for killing her. Especially after what she did to us. But can we see if she's got any information first before we shoot her dead in the street? I promise you'll have the honors."

Taemin considers this. "Deal," he says finally. "Alright. What's our next move?"

"What do we know about her, exactly?" Jongin asks, cutting in.

"Mmm. Well. Other than the fact that I owe her one of these—" Moonkyu traces the back of his thumb down his cheek, a practiced motion that seems to indicate he spends a lot of time touching his ruined face, "—we know that she's been doing this for a very long time. She had little-to-no interaction with government operatives on this side of the globe until you. I don't believe the NIS factored in. No way you were on the original list of targets or potential recruits, Jongin. They were focused on collecting major players in the organized crime world. Kind of like making an all-star team of bad guys. Everyone you'd want on your side if you were planning on infiltrating and dominating any number of international money-making opportunities." A dramatic pause, heavy, while his gaze flits to Taemin, then purposely drops away. "Which is where Taemin comes in."

Taemin bursts out laughing. "Me?"

"Yes. From what we can tell, you were supposed to be one of her recruits."

The smile fades off Taemin's face, leaving his expression frozen and weird. "I... what?"

"Hong didn't tell you?"

"He... did not." Taemin twists the spent cigarette between his fingers, letting the remnants of charred tobacco fall onto the floor of the warehouse. 

"Jongin probably did you a favor, getting you out of Thailand when he did. She was weeks away from coming in and dragging you out herself. She wouldn't have been nearly so gentle as our Jongin, here."

Jongin feels sick thinking about it. What could have happened if he hadn't been tasked with assassinating Taemin—Taemin almost certainly wouldn't have gone with Natalia without putting up a fight. Natalia would have killed him.

It's also a shocking revelation: if he _hadn't_ said yes to the mission in Thailand, he'd still be working for the NIS right now. He probably never would have known about Lee Taemin, or about this organization—no Hong, no life in New York City. Just the job and the team, the same as it had always been, the only life he'd ever imagined before Taemin walked out of the jungle and into his life.

Taemin's fallen silent, turning this over in his head. He turns away, and then back, and then away again, lips pursed, agitated, words stuck somewhere in his throat. Jongin shoots Moonkyu a Look, one that says, _you shouldn't have told him like this,_ and Moonkyu appears to look sufficiently penitent. 

"I'm sorry, Taemin, I didn't realize Hong hadn't talked to you about this. It was something we figured out back when we started connecting the dots—Jongin didn't fit the profile, but _you_ did, and then it turned out—"

"It's okay. It doesn't matter, right? It didn't happen."

"No, but still—"

"What's next?" Taemin insists. "I need to know what we're _doing_. I don't care about something that nearly happened, five years ago. That's a lifetime. It's irrelevant to me, and—" He's cut off by the sharp sound of his phone ringing from his pocket. He frowns.

"Get it," Jongin says. "Who is it? Hong?"

"Probably won't be him," Taemin says, flinching a little at Hong's name. He's smarting over the bombshell Moonkyu's just dropped on his head. "It's 3AM in New York." He fishes the cell phone out of his pocket and squints at the display. "It's Soojung."

"Let me get it," Jongin says, holding his hand out. He steps away, over to the window, to hear himself speak. "Hey, Soojung. It's me."

"Hey. Jongin," she says. Her voice sounds tight and scratchy, like she's been crying. "How are you? How's your head?"

"Good. Jongdae-hyung took good care of me. Is everything okay with you and Baekhyun?"

"Yes, we're—it's fine, I'm sorry we worried you last night. We're okay. Have you met with Hong's contact yet?"

"Yes. We're still here right now. You'll never believe who it is—Timo?—it's Moonkyu. He's been working for Hong."

"You're kidding," she says, sounding more like her old self for a moment. "Why didn't he tell us before? How long has he been working for him? Did Taemin know?"

"I'll let him explain himself to you in person," Jongin says. "But you didn't call to catch up. What's going on?"

"Something's happened."

"Is everyone okay? Jonghee?—Baekhyun?—Chanyeol?"

"We're all okay. You probably—you probably didn't see it, the news buried it with Taemin—and I mean of course, they're going to run coverage on a bombing with suspected mob ties. The police are saying it was just a home invasion gone wrong, so it's not as interesting—but Baekhyun's sure it was a hit, and it _can't_ be a coincidence—"

"Soojung, slow down, you're not making any sense. Who's dead? What was a hit?"

Moonkyu and Taemin fall silent. Jongin can feel the weight of their stares from the other side of the room, waiting for him to clue them in. He brings a palm to his forehead, sighing, turning away. 

"Baekhyun's asset—the one who went missing. They retrieved him from his mission, debriefed him, and he was supposed to go home and rest. He didn't show up for work this morning and wasn't answering calls, so Baekhyun went to his apartment, and the door was wide open, and—well, he found him—somebody shot him, sometime last night, they think."

"Shit. Is Baekhyun okay?"

"He's—no, he's not okay, honestly. He's taking it pretty hard, as you can imagine. He's blaming himself for not protecting him. I think he feels—it's like when you went inside, he felt responsible then, too."

"He couldn't have known what was going to happen—how many times did I disappear after a job for a few nights, just to get some sleep? I turned my phone off every time. It didn't mean anything, and you guys would have gone crazy trying to track me down."

"I know, I've been telling him that." She lowers her voice. "Jongin, he's—he's talking seriously about stepping down because of this."

Jongin gasps. "He can't step down—they need him. _We_ need him. It's not his fault that this happened."

"I know. I know. I know."

"What—what was his mission? Who was this guy?"

"He was young. Rookie agent, only in his second year. It was supposed to be a four day stop in Chongqing. That stretched to six days when his phone went dead and they had to make up for the lost time. Baekhyun said besides the phone issue, it was routine. He got in and out clean. Textbook job. It wasn't even dangerous, apparently—strictly a fact-finding mission."

Something Soojung says triggers a memory—then a realization. Chongqing. Nothing's a coincidence—not the bricked phone, not the disappearance, not the subsequent 'home invasion'. This has Natalia's fingerprints all over it. "What was he doing in Chongqing?"

He doesn't see it happen but suddenly Taemin's there by his side, hand sliding onto Jongin's hip. He's squinting up at Jongin, concerned, his face a question mark. Jongin shakes his head once. _I don't know what's going on yet, let me figure it out._

"He was looking into some corruption for the NIS. I don't have any more details of his mission—Baekhyun says they're classified, and he's not really in the mood to talk about it with me right now—but you're familiar with that area of the world, right? The graft was out of control, especially after the crackdown a few years ago left a lot of resources wide open for crime bosses to move back in. Something about the operation of illegal mines. Deja vu, you know? The crime's always the same, just the names and faces are different."

Illegal mines. Natalia's cover for her illegitimate business dealings—always mineral rights. Investment consulting. Gold. Copper futures. Everything fits. "Soojung. It's not—you have to tell Baekhyun right away. Natalia was in Chongqing last week. She's got something to do with this."

Her voice drops again, whispering, sharp and anxious all at once: "How do you know that?"

"Moonkyu told us—he followed her there. That's the last place anyone saw her before she showed up in Seoul. Baekhyun's right—that can't be a coincidence at all. It wasn't a home invasion. Natalia got to him. He was her target, and we gave her the perfect cover to get away with it."

☠☠☠


	15. Chapter 15

Taemin regains control of the situation and wrests the phone from Jongin's grasp. "Soojung," he says, stepping away, his tone sharp and businesslike. "Put Baekhyun on the phone. I need to know everything. Has he been on the scene?" He pauses. Listens. Jongin can't hear Soojung's side of things, but he knows—she's probably explaining Baekhyun's anguish, his sudden desire to disconnect from the intelligence community. Taemin's not going to get a damn word out of Baekhyun tonight.

"We've got to get out of here," Moonkyu tells Jongin quietly, standing shoulder to shoulder with him. They watch Taemin pace at the door with a hand in his hair, yanking at the roots with considerable frustration. Taemin's always too rough with himself, like it doesn't matter, like he doesn't notice what he's doing. Jongin moves to stop him. Halts. Lets him be.

"What's our next move?" Jongin asks instead. "If she's targeting NIS operatives, Jongdae and Baekhyun and Soojung need protection until we can neutralize her—"

Moonkyu laughs. "Listen to you, sounding like you're still in the service. _Neutralize._ Cute. We don't know what she's doing," Moonkyu says. "We need more information, and we need more help. _And_ —we need to stop relying on intelligence from the NIS or any affiliated sources, because it's incomplete and it's putting them in a compromising position."

"What do you mean?"

"That family is never going to know what really happened to their son," Moonkyu says. "Baekhyun can never tell them that he was assassinated by a member of some international crime syndicate, and he _especially_ can't tell them it's got anything to do with you or Taemin. At best, they'd never believe him, or at worst they _would_ , and Baekhyun would be in jail for leading Natalia right to this kid's doorstep."

"But he didn't do that! There's no way they could prove it—"

"It doesn't matter what he did or didn't do. Appearances are everything, Kim Jongin, or have you already forgotten what happened at your trial?" Moonkyu asks. "You remember what the prosecutor kept saying? That you were colluding with our enemies? Leaking state secrets? Everything you did was sanctioned by your handlers, but do you think the public at large understands how it works? A spy is just a criminal who works for the government. It's easy to make us look like we're working for the other side. Too easy, sometimes. We're on the front lines and we're the ones making things happen without expecting any public recognition, but you can be damn sure we're the first to scapegoat if something goes wrong. You _know_ there's surveillance footage of you together with Baekhyun somewhere—maybe back in New York when he came to get you, or maybe here in the city since you've been back. Once someone finds that, it wouldn't be hard to link Baekhyun and Soojung back to you, and even easier to connect you to Taemin—who's supposed to be dead. _Again_. If the government thinks this _wasn't_ a random act of violence, Baekhyun will go to jail. So we need to focus, now, because it's just us out here."

Jongin stares at Moonkyu, gaze dropping from his eyes to the sharp hook of the jagged scar across Moonkyu's cheek, and then back. Once upon a time, he used to call the shots and Moonkyu was the one who followed, but Moonkyu gathered the pieces of himself that remained after Natalia torpedoed his freelancing career and he threw himself back into the fight because it was the right thing to do. Moonkyu didn't run away like a coward and try to start a new life with unfinished business left behind him. 

That fucking scar. It should be marring Jongin's skin, not Moonkyu's. 

Jongin looks away, ashamed. "Yeah," he says. "Alright."

"Okay. I will," Taemin says to Soojung, finishing the call, and tosses the phone back to Jongin with a flick of his wrist. His eyes are on fire. "Let's roll."

☠☠☠

Moonkyu steals a passenger van from a nearby parking lot in broad daylight, which is just crazy enough to cheer Taemin up a little bit, even though he's still got the beginnings of a frown creasing the bridge of his nose after his talk with Soojung. 

"We need to figure out her location right away," Jongin says, sitting shotgun, the borrowed mask from Taemin stretched over his mouth to hide his features from any traffic cameras that might catch them. With the way Moonkyu's running red lights like they're more of a suggestion than anything, there's no guarantee they'll even make it to their destination without all of them being hauled into custody. The road conditions aren't great, either, which makes everything even more precarious. If Moonkyu hits a patch of black ice driving this recklessly, they're all going to die.

Taemin's in the back, seatbelt unbuckled, kicking at the loose license plates on the floor. "It may be too late. She could've left the country yesterday," he says, finally, his voice tight with impatience. "We don't know enough to do anything. Her movements yesterday aren't going to help us much now if we have no idea where she could be hiding."

"She hasn't gone anywhere," Moonkyu says confidently, executing a hairpin turn so tight Jongin swears the van briefly tips onto two wheels. His brain rattles off a prayer so fast he's exhaling _Amen_ before he realizes he hasn't been to church in more than a decade and yet still somehow remembers the whole thing from start to finish. 

Moonkyu's still talking when Jongin shakes himself out of it. "No, Taemin—think. We're right here. She's got a job to do and they're not going to let her leave us alive. So if you look at it that way, we're the ones at an advantage right now. We know that much. We don't know how she's going to come after us, but we know that she's probably got orders to kill us before she's allowed to return home."

"But nobody knows that he's still alive," Jongin says. "It's all over the news."

"If she's still in contact with Wolf, she'll know."

"What makes you think she has any use for him? As far as she knows—"

"—we don't know _what_ she knows. That's kind of the whole problem here," Taemin cuts in. "We're completely in the dark." He sounds bitter, probably still turning over Moonkyu's earlier confession. Normally he's brazen, even in the face of _not enough intelligence_ , but now—he seems defeated, almost, curling back into the middle row bucket seat and drawing his knees to his chest. This Taemin is unfamiliar to Jongin and it shakes him a little. He's off his game; they all are.

"Taemin's right. We're working with a lot of suppositions here, and nothing we can put into action. So. I called for backup."

"What does that mean?" Jongin asks. "Who could you possibly—"

"Hong's on a plane right now. His instructions were to get you two out of harm's way and wait for him to arrive, so—here we are. As safe as you could possibly be." 

The van slows to a stop in front of a gate with a security booth. Moonkyu flashes something from the inside of his wallet—a badge, maybe—and the gate to the parking garage grinds open with a loud, metallic whine.

"Where are we?" Jongin asks. He'd been too focused on the conversation and trying to avoid motion sickness. "Gangnam?" His neck craned up to peer out the windshield, he can make out the lower third of a tall building with windows made of sleek, polarized glass that reflects the setting winter sun. 

Moonkyu doesn't respond right away. He pulls up to an unmanned kiosk and punches an eight-digit code into a glossy touch screen interface, holding his finger steady at the conclusion of the last number. A fingerprint scanner. It blips after a moment and the light flashes green. He pulls through and hangs a hard left to descend further underground—two, three, four floors.

"Relax, Jongin," Moonkyu says finally, pulling up to a valet podium, with the first human being Jongin's seen since they pulled inside standing at attention beside it. It's only when Jongin's unfolding himself out of the front seat that he notices the pistol the valet's got holstered underneath his vest. He turns to say something to Taemin, but Taemin's not paying attention to anything, more interested in the tops of his boots than Jongin's curiosity.

There's an elevator at the end of the garage, smooth black doors that wait for Moonkyu to verify his palm print _and_ a retina scan before they slide open. The elevator's interior is nicer than their apartment back in New York. Jongin can't hide his surprise and mentions this to Taemin as a joke, hoping to break the awkward tension.

"Hong's New York place is nicer," Taemin tells him. Jongin's eyes bug. Nicer? He can't imagine what that could possibly look like. He's having a hard time wrapping his head around _this_ place.

"You think so? It's so… cold," Moonkyu says. "I always liked this one better."

"You'll see," Taemin says to Jongin, shrugging like it's no big deal. "I'll take you when we get home. It's excessive."

"I've been staying here since I moved back to Seoul last month to chase down this lead," Moonkyu says. "I'm surprised you weren't here too, honestly. When Hong told me you'd be arriving, I assumed you'd be here too."

Taemin shrugs. "One more thing to explain." _To Jongin_ , he means, and Jongin feels guilty. If they'd been here… maybe Taemin wouldn't have gotten shot in the first place. Maybe they would have already caught Natalia, given a valuable head start instead of struggling to piece together old information while Taemin pretended not to know a thing, all in the name of protecting Jongin from his past.

"Still, with safety concerns—I can't believe Hong didn't force you to be here."

"I know," Taemin says. "He wasn't happy about it. I think it's best we stay here now, until everything's finished. Now that everything's out in the open." He glances at Jongin. "This is the safest place to be in the whole hemisphere."

The elevator opens onto the sprawling, lavish sitting room of a penthouse apartment. The room's encased in huge panes of tinted glass—security glass, mirrored on the outside—allowing them to look out over the city without being detected. Jongin slips off his shoes immediately and lines them up next to Taemin's clunky combat boots.

"360° unobstructed view," Moonkyu says. "In Cheongdam. Unreal."

"I—yeah, no kidding," Jongin says. "What _is_ this building?" He can't place it in the skyline, looking out northwest to Namsan Tower, and then across the maze of furniture in the living room, to the window facing south, to the COEX Mall and beyond. There's a spiral staircase that leads down to a lower floor, where Moonkyu tells him the living quarters are situated. 

"Beneath that, there's Hong's satellite office. We'll be working out of there once he arrives."

"So, three floors. Who occupies the rest of the building?" Jongin asks, not sure if he wants to know the answer if it's something like _mercenaries_ or worse: _lawyers_. Taemin stands aside for Jongin to take hold of the stark, iron banister wrapped around the staircase, and follows behind him, Moonkyu bringing up the rear. They descend slowly, footsteps clanking, echoing in the eerie silence of an otherwise-unoccupied apartment.

"It's all Hong's," Taemin says, skipping the last three steps and jumping to the polished wood of the floor below. "It's in HS Telecom's name, but it's leased out to a bunch of fictional companies under the umbrella of the Hongseul Group. We've got our choice of office space, if we really needed it."

Jongin's eyebrows lift. That's one piece of the puzzle solved, one of Baekhyun's questions finally answered: _Who is Wilson Hong?_ — Wilson Hong is the man behind the telecommunications group with the largest market share in South Korea. It makes sense, too—a multi-billion dollar industry, essential to world business, world travel, world… everything—it all hinges on keeping up to date with cutting edge information technology and spending a lot of money to keep that information a secret. 

This is why Hong is able to do the things that he does.

Baekhyun will be—relieved? to know?—Jongin isn't sure about Baekhyun anymore. If this was the answer Baekhyun was looking for, there will be more questions. If he even wants to know, anymore. Jongin hopes so. He can't wait to get a moment to himself so he can call Baekhyun and tell him everything he's just discovered about a man who used to be nothing more than initials on a building lease.

Moonkyu leads them to a massive kitchen with an open layout, tiled in bright blue glass from ceiling to floor. It looks like it belongs in an interior decorating magazine. "Hong sent staff to prepare the apartment before I got here, so there's plenty of food in the kitchen, if you're hungry. Do you need a doctor?" he asks, looking at Taemin. "How's the chest?"

"No, I'm fine," Taemin says, pulling a bottle of water out of the fridge like he's been here before. He _has_ been here before. He hands it to Jongin and retrieves a second. "Look, Timo—"

"I think you can call me Moonkyu now, yes?"

Taemin hesitates, and then agrees, chin inclined. "Moonkyu. Look—I'm not even sure what Hong could possibly do at this juncture. We're up against the wall. We—what can we do? Until she makes another move, we're lost." 

It's the most defeated Jongin has ever heard Taemin sound, and it's a little frightening, even if it's also an accurate assessment of the situation. Taemin's supposed to be the one barreling into things headfirst, precautions be damned. Pragmatic Taemin is a stranger to Jongin. 

"We're just getting started," Moonkyu says. 

"What about the civilians involved here? Baekhyun? Soojung?"

"I'm going to sit outside their house overnight and keep watch."

Jongin chimes in here, echoing Taemin's concerns. "What about Jongdae and Chanyeol? You can't be in so many places at once, Moonkyu—"

"Don't worry. Everyone's taken care of, I promise." He ruffles Jongin's hair. "Always so thoughtful, our Jonginnie. I have it under control."

_I just don't want anyone else getting hurt because of me,_ Jongin does not say, because self-pity sounds ridiculous coming out of the mouth of a former spy. He slaps Moonkyu's hand away instead and bites down on the plastic cap of his water bottle, hard enough to leave indentations from his front teeth.

"Hong's flight is a private charter," Moonkyu continues. "We'll have the benefit of a few days before she realizes Hong is in Seoul. Those few days are going to be the key to everything."

"Did you ever stop to think that maybe that was her plan all along? Get Hong into the city—where she's got something waiting for him?"

"He travels with armed guards, Taemin—"

"And I'm saying we don't know enough about her. Which airport is he flying into? Maybe she's got a team there waiting. It's what we'd do. We don't—we know nothing about her. Nothing at all." Taemin's getting angry again, which is only slightly better than Taemin being glum. At least his anger can help focus him, Jongin thinks.

"He's got his people at the airport. Nobody's going to be taking him hostage at gunpoint. They'll be dead before their body hits the ground. I'm sure Hong's a target. We all are. But we're smarter than she is, and we're better than she is, and we're going to come out on top this time, now that we've got a better picture of what we're dealing with."

"Do we?"

"There'll be a briefing as soon as Hong lands—and he _will_ land."

"A _briefing_?" Jongin asks, surprised. It all sounds so formal.

"Like being back in the Service, isn't it?" Moonkyu grins. "You kids behave. Bedrooms are down the hall—Taemin knows where. Sleep in whichever one you want, they're all ready for visitors. I'll see you in the morning."

"Excuse me? Where are you going?"

"You stay here," Moonkyu says. "You've both got bounties on your heads. Better let Hong's overblown security measures protect you. I'll go talk to Soojung and Jongdae."

Taemin's visibly displeased at being treated this way. He's never been one to shy away from danger, and to be classified as _vulnerable_ —Jongin can tell it's an insult to his pride. He waves Moonkyu off, lip curled in a barely-concealed snarl. 

He sits in sullen, stony silence as Moonkyu retreats upstairs and leaves, locking them in with an access code he doesn't bother to leave behind. They're trapped in here. Not that Jongin's inclined to go anywhere, not now. 

☠☠☠

The minute Jongin hears the elevator doors close above them, Taemin takes off like a shot, bounding up the stairs two at a time with a terrible clatter. By the time Jongin catches up to him, Taemin's upstairs and by the elevator doors, putting his boots back on. "Stay here and hide like I'm some kind of coward, are you _kidding me_?" he mutters. "Fuck the alarm, let them know I'm not staying in here while she's out there."

Jongin steadies him with a hand on his shoulder. "Where are you going?"

"I'm not staying here—I don't need protection, I need a fucking gun." Taemin doesn't move. He sits still in the middle of the floor, fingers knotted in his laces, mid-bow, staring past Jongin and out over the city.

"Hey," Jongin says after a moment, his tone soft. He squeezes Taemin's shoulder again, trailing his hand up into the soft hair at the nape of his neck and burying his fingers in it. Taemin doesn't acknowledge him.

"Taemin," Jongin tries again. Taemin sighs.

"Jongin, can you just shut up and leave me alone for five minutes? I need to think."

"You don't need your boots on to think."

"Stop, Jongin. You have no idea what's going on." Taemin pulls the laces tight and rises to his feet, brushing past like Jongin's not standing right in front of him, doing his best impression of a sad puppy.

Jongin persists anyway. "Where do you think you're going?" he asks again.

"Out! I'm not going to sit here and hide, I'm not a coward. I'm going to find Wolf, and I'm going to kill him, since nobody else seems willing to do the job that needs to be done." 

"Don't! You heard Moonkyu. Their alliance is our best bet to finding out where Natalia is hiding out. If he's gone, then we have no connection to her. This is huge. We've never had access to any of her associates. She's always worked solo, before."

"Fuck Moonkyu, and fuck you, Jongin, I don't need a babysitter. I've been working on my own for years. I'm tired of following instructions from people who think they know better—that's how it got this far in the first place. It's time to put him _down_ like the rabid dog he is."

"And Natalia?"

"Her, too. Why are you trying to stop me? She ruined your life, Jongin. She took everything from you, and you can't go back, ever. You should want her dead too."

"Of course I do, but I'd rather stop her so her organization doesn't do this to anyone else. And just how are you going to find her on your own? What happens if you get hurt again? I don't want to lose you, you asshole!" Jongin catches at Taemin's elbow. Taemin wrenches free, his eyes blazing and wild.

Jongin's seen him worked up like this once or twice before, but never directed at him. The whole force and weight of Taemin's fury is intimidating, but Jongin can see there's something else there, lurking in his eyes—deep, unchecked sadness. The same sadness he'd had at the cinerarium, when he'd seen his brother. Taemin is frightening, but Jongin knows who he really is, and is not afraid of him.

"I won't get hurt," Taemin says, nearly snarling. "Stop worrying about me, I'm fine."

"You're not fine! You shouldn't be here. You shouldn't have followed me here," Jongin says, trying to touch him again. Taemin shoves Jongin hard enough that he goes sprawling backwards on the floor, startled by the sudden outburst of violence. He looks up at Taemin who stares back, contemplating something.

"You idiot," Taemin says after a few beats. The anger in his eyes gives way to something else, something more affectionate, but no less intense. "Of course I was going to follow you."

Jongin sits up a little, one hand braced behind him on the floor. He rubs his chest with his free hand, right where Taemin had pushed him. Then, a little sheepishly: "Your parents think you're dead— _again_ —because of me, because if you'd stayed back in New York, then maybe—"

Jongin doesn't get to finish his sentence. Taemin lunges, hands twisting up in the collar of Jongin's shirt, pushing him back onto the floor. He lands on Jongin's chest so hard the breath is knocked out of the both of them, and in between blinking away the stars in his eyes and struggling to inhale again, Jongin is faintly amazed to feel that Taemin didn't break one of his ribs.

"Stop blaming yourself," Taemin says. "It wasn't you. You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. You didn't cause any of this to happen, so stop feeling sorry for yourself."

Jongin can't speak. Taemin's face tightens, his lips pressed in a frustrated line. There's so much he isn't saying—and knowing Taemin the way Jongin does, it's likely that he doesn't know _how_ to say it, not without the anger.

"I mean it. Stop blaming yourself," Taemin says again, holding Jongin down. Jongin struggles under Taemin's grip—surprisingly strong despite the lingering weakness in his left arm. Jongin's body goes on autopilot, remembering the next step here: he kicks his knee up, dislodging Taemin and sending him sprawling across the floor. Taemin lands on his back and makes a wounded noise.

Jongin rushes to him and rolls him over, fingers already working at the buttons on Taemin's shirt to check his stitches. "Shit, Taemin, I'm sorry—are you okay?"

Shirt falling half-open, Taemin knocks Jongin's hands away and pulls him down into an extended kiss, breathing heavily, gripping Jongin's throat so hard Jongin chokes at the sudden lack of oxygen, feeling the fingerprint bruises Taemin's squeezing into his skin. Taemin kisses him hungrily— _angrily, even_ —mouth open and sloppy, and then without warning, rolls them over again with an abrupt shove so he's back on top, pinning Jongin to the floor with his knees. 

"Say it," Taemin says, sounding winded, and squeezes a pressure point at the bend of Jongin's elbow, his other hand cuffing Jongin's wrist to his side so he can't tug it away. Jongin winces in pain, but arches up into it anyway, like he's daring Taemin to pinch harder. He knows this fight isn't about tactical disagreements, it's about something else, it's about both of them admitting that international conspiracies are out of their control, that they never asked for this, any of it, except maybe each other.

"It wasn't, fuck—Taemin—it wasn't my fault," Jongin gasps after a minute, finally unable to stand the pain in his arm anymore. He falls limp underneath Taemin's weight, defeated. Taemin's grip softens immediately. "But it wasn't your fault, either."

Taemin's eyes are shiny-black and glittering, a stray tear landing on Jongin's cheek as he looks away, chin quivering, mouth a resolute line. Jongin frees a hand from Taemin's grasp and pushes a lock of Taemin's unruly hair behind his ear. The fight's over; maybe it hadn't even been a fight in the first place.

"Hey," Jongin says, softly, as Taemin climbs off to settle next to him on the floor, carefully hiding his face in Jongin's armpit. Jongin's fingers rake through Taemin's hair, soothing and slow. "I promise. We're going to get her."

"I need you with me on this," Taemin says when he finally turns his face to look up at Jongin, sober, unsmiling and serious. "I really can't do it without you." Taemin's so raw right now, and Jongin doesn't really know what he needs, but he can take control for a little while, until Taemin's emotions aren't driving him to uncontrollable violence anymore.

"I'm right here," Jongin says, more alert and more confident than he's felt in years. "But you've got to promise me that you'll wait a day for Hong. We need backup if we're going to do this right. I don't want to jump the gun and mess everything up. We need to do this right—it can't be—it can't be another job like Chanyeol's restaurant. It's got to be organized."

Taemin sighs, hard. "Fine."

"No more perimeter checks on your own, either."

Taemin's mouth quirks gently, smile breaking through. There he is, finally. Back to himself. "Yeah, okay," he says. "Fine."

Jongin sucks in a deep breath. "What's next, then?"

Taemin kisses him.


End file.
